"They got it right."
"I've been on the front page twice, nothing ever good. No surprise that they don't like us mass tort boys. Nobody does, really, which is something you'll learn. The money takes the sting out of the negative image. You'll get used to it. We all do. I actually met your father once." His eyes squinted and darted when he talked, as if he was constantly thinking three sentences ahead.
"Really?" Clay wasn't sure he believed him.
"I was with the Justice Department twenty years ago. We were litigating over some Indian lands. The Indians brought in Jarrett Carter from D.C. and the war was over. He was very good."
"Thank you," Clay said, with immense pride.
"I gotta tell you, Clay, this Dyloft ambush of yours is a thing of beauty. And very unusual. In most cases, word of a bad drug spreads slowly as more and more patients complain. Doctors are slow as hell in communicating. They're in bed with the drug companies, so they have no incentive to raise the red flag. Plus, in most jurisdictions, the doctors get sued because they prescribed the drug in the first place. Slowly, the lawyers get involved. Uncle Luke has suddenly got blood in his urine for no reason, and after staring at it for a month or so he'll go to his doctor down in Podunk, Louisiana. And the doctor will eventually take him off whatever new miracle drug he had prescribed. Uncle Luke may or may not go see the family lawyer, usually a small-town ham-and-egger who does wills and divorces and in most cases wouldn't know a decent tort if one hit him. It takes time for these bad drugs to get discovered. What you've done is very unique."
Clay was content to nod and listen. French was content to do the talking. This was leading somewhere.
"Which tells me that you have some inside information." A pause, a brief gap in which Clay was given the opportunity to confirm that he did indeed have inside information. But he offered no clue.
"I have a vast network of lawyers and contacts from coast to coast. No one, not a single one, had heard of problems with Dyloft until a few weeks ago. I had two lawyers in my firm doing the preliminary workup on the drug, but we were nowhere close to filing suit. Next thing I see is news of your ambush and your smiling face on the front page of The Wall Street Journal. I know how the game is played, Clay, and I know you have something from the inside."
"I do. And I'll never tell anybody."
"Good. That makes me feel better. I saw your ads. We monitor such things in every market. Not bad. In fact, the fifteen-second method you're using has been proven as the most effective. Did you know that?"
"No."
"Hit 'em fast late at night, early in the morning. A quick message to scare them, then a phone number where they can get help. I've done it a thousand times. How many cases have you generated?"
"It's hard to say. They have to do the initial urinalysis. The phones have not stopped ringing."
"My ads start tomorrow. I have six people in-house who do nothing but work on advertising, can you believe that? Six full-time ad folks. And they're not cheap."
Julia appeared with two platters of food - a shrimp tray and one covered with cheeses and various meats - prosciutto, salami, and several more Clay could not name. "A bottle of that Chilean white," Pat-ton said. "It should be chilled by now.
"Do you like wine?" he asked, grabbing a shrimp by its tail.
"Some. I'm no expert."
"I adore wine. I keep a hundred bottles on this airplane." Another shrimp. "Anyway, we figure there are between fifty and a hundred thousand Dyloft cases. That sound close?"
"A hundred might be on the high side," Clay said cautiously.
"I'm a little worried about Ackerman Labs. I've sued them twice before, you know?"
"I didn't know that."
"Ten years ago, back when they had plenty of cash. They went through a couple of bad CEOs who made some bad acquisitions. Now they have ten billion in debt. Stupid stuff. Typical of the 1990s. Banks were throwing money at the blue-chips, who took it and tried to buy the world. Anyway, Ackerman is not in danger of bankruptcy or anything like that. And they've got some insurance." French was fishing here and Clay decided to take the bait.
"They have at least three hundred million in insurance," he said. "And perhaps half a billion to spend on Dyloft."
French smiled and almost drooled over this information. He could not and did not try to hide his admiration. "Great stuff, son, wonderful stuff. How good is your inside dirt?"
"Excellent. We have insiders who'll spill the beans, and we have lab reports that we're not supposed to have. Ackerman cannot get near a jury with Dyloft."
"Awesome," he said as he closed his eyes and absorbed these words. A starving lawyer with his first decent car wreck could not have been happier.
Julia was back with the wine, which she poured into two priceless small goblets. French sniffed it properly and evaluated it slowly and when he was satisfied he took a sip. He smacked his lips and nodded his head, then leaned in for more gossip. "There is a thrill in catching a big, rich, proud corporation doing something dirty that is better than sex, Clay, better than sex. It's the biggest thrill I know. You catch the greedy bastards putting out bad products that harm innocent people, and you, the lawyer, get to punish them. It's what I live for. Sure, the money is sensational, but the money comes after you've caught them. I'll never stop, regardless of how much money I make. People think I'm greedy because I could quit and go live on a beach for the rest of my life. Boring! I'd rather work a hundred hours a week trying to catch the big crooks. It's my life."
At that moment, his zeal was contagious. His face glowed with fanaticism. He exhaled heavily, then said, "You like this wine?"
"No, it tastes like kerosene," Clay said.
"You're right. Julia! Flush this! Bring us a bottle of that Meursault we picked up yesterday."
First, though, she brought a phone. "It's Muriel." French grabbed it and said, "Hello."
Julia leaned down and, almost in a whisper, said, "Muriel is the head secretary, Mother Superior. She gets through when his wives cannot."
French slapped the phone shut and said, "Let me trot out a scenario for you, Clay. And I promise you it is designed to get you more money in a shorter period of time. Much more."
"I'm listening."
"I'll end up with as many Dyloft cases as you. Now that you've opened the door, there will be hundreds of lawyers chasing these cases. We, you and I, can control the litigation if we move your lawsuit from D.C. to my backyard in Mississippi. That will terrify Ackerman Labs beyond anything you can imagine. They're worried now because you've nailed them in D.C., but they're also thinking, 'Well, he's just a rookie, never been here before, never handled a mass tort case, this is his first class action, and so on. But if we put your cases with mine, combine everything into one class action, and move it to Mississippi, then Ackerman Labs will have one, huge, massive corporate coronary."
Clay was almost dizzy with doubt and with questions. "I'm listening," was all he could manage.
"You keep your cases, I keep mine. We pool them, and as the other cases are signed up and the lawyers come on board, I'll go to the trial judge and ask him to appoint a Plaintiffs' Steering Committee. Do it all the time. I'll be the chairman. You'll be on the committee because you filed first. We'll monitor the Dyloft litigation, try and keep things organized, though with a bunch of arrogant lawyers it's hard as hell. I've done it dozens of times. The committee gives us control. We'll start negotiating with Ackerman pretty soon. I know their lawyers. If your inside dope is as strong as you say, we push hard for an early settlement."