Borrowing a page from the defendants' own playbook, Ms. Warshaw faxed copies of her lawsuit to a dozen prominent newspapers fifteen minutes after she filed it.
A brusque and burly process server presented himself to the receptionist at Clay's office and demanded to see Mr. Carter. "It's urgent," he insisted. He was sent down the hall where he had to deal with Miss Glick. She summoned her boss, who reluctantly came from his office and took possession of the paperwork that would ruin his day. Maybe his year.
The reporters were already calling by the time Clay finished reading the class action. Oscar Mulrooney was with him; the door was locked. "I've never heard of this," Clay mumbled, painfully aware that there was so much he didn't know about the mass tort game.
Nothing wrong with a good ambush, but at least the companies he had sued knew they had trouble brewing. Ackerman Labs knew it had a bad drug before Dyloft hit the market. Hanna Portland Cement Company had people on the ground in Howard County assessing the initial claims. Goffman had already been sued by Dale Mooneyham over Maxatil, and other trial lawyers were circling. But this? Clay had had no idea that Ted Worley was sick again. Not a hint of trouble anywhere in the country. It just wasn't fair.
Mulrooney was too stunned to speak.
Through the intercom Miss Glick announced, "Clay, there's a reporter here from the Washington Post."
"Shoot the bastard," Clay growled.
"Is that a 'No'?"
"It's a 'Hell no!'"
"Tell him Clay's not here," Oscar managed to say.
"And call security," Clay added.
The tragic death of a close friend could not have caused a more somber mood. They talked about spin control - how to respond, and when? Should they quickly put together an aggressive denial to the lawsuit and file it that day? Fax copies to the press? Should Clay talk to the reporters?
Nothing was decided because they could not make a decision. The shoe was on the other foot; this was new territory.
Oscar volunteered to spread the news around the firm, spinning everything in a positive light to keep morale up.
"If I'm wrong, I'll pay the claim," Clay said.
"Let's hope Mr. Worley is the only one from this firm."
"That's the big question, Oscar. How many Ted Worleys are out there?"
Sleep was impossible. Ridley was in St. Barth, renovating the villa, and for that Clay was grateful. He was humiliated and embarrassed; at least she didn't know about it.
His thoughts were on Ted Worley. He was not angry, far from it. Allegations in lawsuits are famously off the mark, but these sounded accurate. His former client would not be claiming to have malignant tumors if they did not actually exist. Mr. Worley's cancer was caused by a bad drug, not by a bad lawyer. But to hurriedly settle a case for $62,000 when it was ultimately worth millions smacked of malpractice and greed. Who could blame the man for striking back?
Throughout the long night, Clay drowned in self-pity - his badly bruised ego; the utter humiliation among peers, friends, and employees; the delight of his enemies; the dread of tomorrow and the public flogging he would take in the press, with no one to defend him.
At times he was afraid. Could he really lose everything? Was this the beginning of the end? The trial would have enormous jury appeal - for the other side! And how many potential plaintiffs were out there? Each case was worth millions.
Nonsense. With twenty-five thousand Maxatil cases waiting in the wings he could withstand anything.
But all thoughts eventually came back to Mr. Worley, a client who had not been protected by his lawyer. The sense of guilt was so heavy that he felt like calling the man and apologizing. Maybe he would write him a letter. He vividly remembered reading the two he'd received from his former client. He and Jonah had had a good laugh over them.
Shortly after 4 A.M., Clay made the first pot of coffee. At five, he went online and read the Post. No terrorist attacks in the past twenty-four hours. No serial murderers had struck. Congress had gone home. The President was on vacation. A slow news day, so why not put the smiling face of "The King of Torts" on the front page, bottom half?
Mass Tort Lawyer Sued by the Masses
was the clever headline. The first paragraph read: Washington attorney J. Clay Carter, the so-called newest King of Torts, received a taste of his own medicine yesterday when he was sued by some disgruntled clients. The lawsuit alleges that Carter, who earned a reported $110 million in fees last year, prematurely settled cases for small amounts when they were, in fact, worth millions.
The remaining eight paragraphs were no better. A severe case of diarrhea had hit during the night, and Clay raced to the bathroom.
His buddy at The Wall Street Journal weighed in with the heavy artillery. Front page, left side, same hideous sketch of Clay's smug face.
Is the King of Torts about to be Dethroned?
was the headline. The tone of the article sounded as if Clay should be indicted and imprisoned rather than simply dethroned. Every business trade group in Washington had ready opinions on the subject. Their delight was thinly concealed. How ironic that they were so happy to see yet another lawsuit. The President of the National Trial Lawyers Academy had no comment.
No comment! From the one and only group that never waivered in its support of trial lawyers. The next paragraph explained why. Helen Warshaw was an active member of the New York Trial Lawyers Academy. In fact, her credentials were impressive. A board-certified trial advocate. Law Review editor at Columbia. She was thirty-eight years old, ran marathons for fun, and was described by a former opponent as "brilliant and tenacious."
A lethal combination, Clay thought as he ran back to the bathroom.
Sitting on the toilet he realized that the lawyers would not take sides in this one. It was a family feud. He could expect no sympathy, no defenders.
An unnamed source put the number of plaintiffs at a dozen. Class certification was expected because a much larger group of plaintiffs was anticipated. "How large?" Clay asked himself as he made more coffee. "How many Worleys are out there?"
Mr. Carter, age thirty-two, was not available for comment. Patton French called the lawsuit "frivolous," a description he borrowed, according to the article, from no less than eight companies he had sued in the past four years. He ventured further by saying the lawsuit "... smacked of a conspiracy by the tort reforms proponents and their benefactors, the insurance industry." Perhaps the reporter caught Patton after a few stout vodkas.
A decision had to be made. Because he had a legitimate illness he could hunker down at home and ride out the storm from there. Or he could step into the cruel world and face the music. He really wanted to take some pills and go back to bed and wake up in a week with the nightmare behind him. Better yet, hop on the plane and go see Ridley.
He was at the office by seven, with a game face on, high on coffee, bouncing around the halls bantering and laughing with the early shift, making lame but sporting jokes about other process servers on the way and reporters poking around and subpoenas flying here and there. It was a gutsy, splendid performance, one his firm needed and appreciated.
It continued until mid-morning when Miss Glick stopped it cold by stepping into his open office and saying, "Clay, those two FBI agents are back."
"Wonderful!" he said, rubbing his hands together as if he might just whip both of them.
Spooner and Lohse appeared with tight smiles and no handshakes. Clay closed the door, gritted his teeth, and told himself to keep performing. But the fatigue hit hard. And the fear.