The King of Torts

“No way. There are too many claims, and good ones. Remember our first Dyloft plaintiff, Ted Worley?”

“Sure.”

“He died yesterday. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I sure didn’t protect him either. His case in front of a jury is worth five million bucks. There are twenty-six of those. I’m going to London.”

“Clay, I want to help.”

“I’m not taking your money. That’s why you’re here, and I know it. I’ve had this conversation twice with Paulette and once with Jonah. You made your money and you were smart enough to cash out. I wasn’t.”

“But we’re not going to let you die, man. You didn’t have to give us ten million bucks. But you did. We’re giving some back.” “No.” “Yes. The three of us have talked about it. We’ll wait until the bankruptcy is over, then each of us will do a transfer. A gift.” “You earned that money, Rodney. Keep it.” “Nobody earns ten million dollars in six months, Clay.

You might win it, steal it, or have it drop out of the sky, but nobody earns money like that. It’s ridiculous and obscene. I’m giving some back. So is Paulette. Not sure about Jonah, but he’ll come around.”

“How are the kids?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Yes, I’m changing the subject.”

So they talked about kids, and old friends at OPD, and old clients and cases there. They sat on the front steps until after dark, when Rebecca arrived and it was time for di

42

The Post reporter was Art Mariani, a young man who knew Clay Carter well because he’d documented his astounding rise and his equally amazing crash with careful attention to detail and a reasonable dose of fairness. When Mariani arrived at Clay’s town house, he was greeted by Paulette and led down the narrow hall to the kitchen where folks were waiting. Clay hobbled to his feet and introduced himself, then went around the table—Zack Battle, his attorney; Rebecca Van Horn, his friend; and Oscar Mulrooney, his partner. Tape recorders were plugged in. Rebecca made the rounds with the coffeepot.

“It’s a long story,” Clay said, “but we have plenty of time.”

“I have no deadline,” Mariani said.

Clay took a swig of coffee, a deep breath, and jumped into the story. He began with the shooting of Ramon “Pumpkin” Pumphrey by his client, Tequila Watson. Dates, times, places, Clay had notes of everything and all the files. Then Washad Porter and his two murders. Then the other four. Camp Deliverance, Clean Streets, the amazing results of a drug called Tarvan. Though he would never mention the name of Max Pace, he described in detail Pace’s history of Tarvan—the secret clinical trials in Mexico City, Belgrade, and Singapore, the manufacturer’s desire to test it on those of African descent, preferably in the United States. The drug’s arrival in D.C.

“Who made the drug?” Mariani asked, visibly shaken.

After a long pause in which he seemed unable to speak, Clay answered, “I’m not completely sure. But I think it’s Philo.”

“Philo Products?”

“Yes.” Clay reached for a thick document and slid it over to Mariani. “This is one of the settlement agreements. As you will see, there are two offshore companies mentioned. If you can penetrate them, pick up the trail, it will probably lead you to a shell company in Luxembourg, then to Philo.”

“Okay, but why do you suspect Philo?”

“I have a source. That’s all I can tell you.”

This mysterious source selected Clay from all the attorneys in D.C. and convinced him to sell his soul for $15 million. He quickly quit OPD and opened his own firm. Mariani already knew much of this. Clay signed up the families of six of the victims, easily convinced them to take $5 million and keep quiet, and within thirty days had the matter wrapped up. The details poured forth, as did the documents and settlement agreements.

“When I publish this story, what happens to your clients, the families of the victims?” Mariani asked.

“I’ve lost sleep worrying about that, but I think they’ll be fine,” Clay said. “First, they’ve had the money for a year now, so it’s safe to assume a lot of it has been spent.

Second, the drugmaker would be insane to try and set aside these settlements.”

“The families could then sue the manufacturer directly,” Zack added helpfully. “And those verdicts could destroy any big corporation. I’ve never seen a more volatile set of facts.”

“The company won’t touch the settlement agreements,” Clay said. “It’s lucky to get out with a fifty-million settlement.”

“Can the families set the agreements aside when they learn the truth?” Mariani asked.

“It would be difficult.”

“What about you? You signed confidentiality agreements?”

“I’m not a factor anymore. I’m about to be bankrupt. I’m about to surrender my license to practice law. They can’t touch me.” It was a sad admission, one that hurt Clay’s friends as much as it hurt him.

Mariani scribbled some notes and shifted gears. “What happens to Tequila Watson, Washad Porter, and the other men who were convicted of these murders?”

“First, they can probably sue the drugmaker, which won’t help them much in prison. Second, there’s a chance their cases could be reopened, at least the sentencing aspect.”

Zack Battle cleared his throat and everyone waited. “Off the record. After you publish whatever you decide to publish, and after the storm dies down, I plan to take these cases and have them reviewed. I’ll sue on behalf of the seven defendants, that is, if we can identify the pharmaceutical company. I might petition the criminal courts to reopen their convictions.”

“This is very explosive,” Mariani said, stating the obvious. He studied his notes for a long time. “What led to the Dyloft litigation?”

“That’s another chapter for another day,” Clay said. “You’ve documented most of it anyway. I’m not talking about it.”

“Fair enough. Is this story over?”

“For me it is,” Clay said.

Paulette and Zack drove them to the airport, to Reagan National where Clay’s once-beloved Gulfstream sat very close to the spot where he’d first seen it. Since they were leaving for at least six months, there was a lot of luggage, especially Rebecca’s. Clay, having shed so much in the past month, was traveling light. He got about fine with his crutches, but he couldn’t carry anything. Zack acted as his porter.

He gamely showed them his airplane, though they all knew this was its final voyage. Clay hugged Paulette and embraced Zack, thanked them both and promised to call within days. When the copilot locked the door, Clay pulled the shades over the windows so he would see none of Washington when they lifted off.

To Rebecca, the jet was a ghastly symbol of the destructive power of greed. She longed for the tiny flat in London, where no one knew them, and no one cared what they wore, drove, bought, ate, or where they worked, shopped, or vacationed. She wasn’t coming home. She had fought with her parents for the last time.

Clay longed for two good legs and a clean slate. He was surviving one of the more infamous meltdowns in the history of American law, and it was further and further behind him. He had Rebecca all to himself, and nothing else mattered.

Somewhere over Newfoundland, they unfolded the sofa and fell asleep under the covers.