CLAY'S APARTMENT WAS in an aging complex in Arlington. When he'd leased it four years earlier he had never heard of BVH Group. Later, he would learn that the company had built the place in the early eighties in one of Bennett's first ventures. The venture went bankrupt, the complex got bought and sold several times, and none of Clay's rent went to Mr. Van Horn. In fact, no member of that family knew Clay was living in something they'd built. Not even Rebecca.
He shared a two-bedroom unit with Jonah, an old pal1 from law school who'd flunked2 the bar exam four times before passing it and now sold computers. He sold them part-time and still earned more money than Clay, a fact that was always just under the surface.
The morning after the breakup, Clay fetched the Post from outside his door and settled down at the kitchen table with the first cup of coffee. As always, he went straight to the financial page for a quick and rewarding perusal3 of the dismal4 performance of BVHG. The stock barely traded and the few misguided investors5 who owned it were now willing to unload it for a mere6 $0.75 a share.
Who was the loser here?
There was not a single word about Rebecca's crucial subcommittee hearings.
When he was finished with his little witch hunts, he went to the sports section and told himself it was time to forget the Van Horns. All of them.
At twenty minutes after seven, a time when he was usually eating a bowl of cereal, the phone rang. He smiled and thought, It's her. Back already.
No one else would call so early. No one except the boyfriend or husband of whatever lady might be upstairs sleeping off a hangover with Jonah. Clay had taken several such calls over the years. Jonah adored women, especially those already committed to someone else. They were more challenging, he said.
But it wasn't Rebecca and it wasn't a boyfriend or a husband.
"Mr. Clay Carter," a strange male voice said.
"Speaking."
"Mr. Carter, my name is Max Pace. I'm a recruiter for law firms in Washington and New York. Your name has caught our attention, and I have two very attractive positions that might interest you. Could we have lunch today?"
Completely speechless, Clay would remember later, in the shower, that the thought of a nice lunch was, oddly, the first thing that crossed his mind.
"Uh, sure," he managed to get out. Headhunters were part of the legal business, same as every other profession. But they rarely spent their time bottom-feeding in the Office of the Public Defender8.
"Good. Let's meet in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, say, noon?"
"Noon's fine," Clay said, his eyes focusing on a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Yes, this was real. It was not a dream.
"Thanks, I'll see you then. Mr. Carter, I promise it will be worth your time."
"Uh, sure."
Max Pace hung up quickly, and for a moment Clay held the receiver, looked at the dirty dishes, and wondered who from his law school class was behind this practical joke. Or could it be Bennett the Bulldozer getting one last bit of revenge?
He had no phone number for Max Pace. He did not even have the presence of mind to get the name of his company.
Nor did he have a clean suit. He owned two, both gray, one thick and one thin, both very old and well used. His trial wardrobe. Fortunately, OPD had no office dress code, so Clay usually wore khakis and a navy blazer. If he was going to court, he would put on a tie and take it off as soon as he returned to the office.
In the shower, he decided9 that his attire10 did not matter. Max Pace knew where he worked and had a rough idea of how little he earned. If Clay showed up for the interview in frayed11 khakis, then he could demand more money.
Sitting in traffic on the Arlington Memorial Bridge, he decided it was his father. The old guy had been banished12 from D.C. but still had contacts. He'd finally hit the right button, called in one last favor, found his son a decent job. When Jarrett Carter's high-profile legal career ended in a long and colorful flameout, he pushed his son toward the Office of the Public Defender. Now that apprenticeship13 was over. Five years in the trenches14, and it was time for a real job.
What kinds of firms would be looking for him? He was intrigued15 by the mystery. His father hated the large corporate16 and lobbying outfits17 that were packed along Connecticut and Massachusetts Avenues. And he had no use for the small-timers who advertised on buses and billboards19 and clogged20 up the system with frivolous21 cases. Jarrett's old firm had ten lawyers, ten courtroom brawlers who won verdicts and were in demand.
"That's where I'm headed," Clay mumbled22 to himself as he glanced at the Potomac River beneath him.
AFTER SUFFERING THROUGH THE most unproductive morning of his career, Clay left at eleven-thirty and took his time driving to the Willard, now officially known as the Willard InterContinental Hotel. He was immediately met in the lobby by a muscled young man who looked vaguely23 familiar. "Mr. Pace is upstairs," he explained. "He'd like to meet with you up there, if that's all right." They were walking toward the elevators.
"Sure," Clay said. How he'd been recognized so easily he was not certain.
They ignored each other on the ride up. They stepped onto the ninth floor and Clay's escort knocked on the door of the Theodore Roosevelt Suite24. It opened quickly and Max Pace said hello with a businesslike smile. He was in his mid-forties, dark wavy25 hair, dark mustache, dark everything. Black denim26 jeans, black T-shirt, black pointed-toe boots. Hollywood at the Willard. Not exactly the corporate look Clay had been expecting. As they shook hands he had the first hint that things were not what they seemed.
With a quick glance, the bodyguard27 was sent away.
"Thanks for coming," Max said as they walked into an oval-shaped room laden28 with marble.
"Sure." Clay was absorbing the suite; luxurious29 leathers and fabrics30, rooms branching off in all directions. "Nice place."
"It's mine for a few more days. I thought we could eat up here, order some room service, that way we can talk with complete privacy."
"Fine with me." A question came to mind, the first of many. What was a Washington headhunter doing renting a horribly expensive hotel suite? Why didn't he have an office nearby? Did he really need a bodyguard?
"Anything in particular to eat?"
"I'm easy."
"They do a great capellini and salmon31 dish. I had it yesterday. Superb."
"I'll try it." At that moment Clay would have tried anything; he was starving.
Max went to the phone while Clay admired the view of Pennsylvania Avenue below. When lunch was ordered, they sat near the window and quickly got past the weather, the Orioles latest losing streak32, and the lousy state of the economy. Pace was glib33 and seemed at ease talking about anything for as long as Clay wanted. He was a serious weight lifter who wanted folks to know it. His shirt stuck to his chest and arms and he liked to pick at his mustache. Whenever he did so, his biceps flexed34 and bulged35.
A stuntman36 maybe, but not a headhunter in the big leagues. Ten minutes into the chatter37, and Clay said, "These two firms, why don't you tell me a little about them?" "They don't exist," Max said. "I admit I lied to you.
And I promise it's the only time I will ever lie to you." "You're not a headhunter, are you?" "No." "Then what?" "I'm a fireman." "Thanks, that really clears things up." "Let me talk for a moment. I have some explaining to
do, and when I'm finished I promise you'll be pleased." "I suggest you talk real fast, Max, or I'm outta here." "Relax, Mr. Carter. Can I call you Clay?" "Not yet." "Very well. I'm an agent, a contractor38, a freelancer39
with a specialty40. I get hired by big companies to put out fires. They screw up, they realize their mistakes before the lawyers do, so they hire me to quietly enter the picture, tidy up their mess, and, hopefully, save them a bunch of money. My services are in great demand. My name may be Max Pace and it may be something else. It doesn't matter. Who I am and where I come from are irrelevant41. What's important here is that I have been hired by a large company to put out a fire. Questions?"
"Too numerous to ask right now."
"Hang on. I cannot tell you the name of my client now, perhaps never. If we reach an agreement, then I can tell you much more.
Here's the story: My client is a multinational42 that manufactures pharmaceuticals43. You'll recognize the name. It makes a wide range of products, from common household remedies that are in your medicine cabinet right now to complex drugs that will fight cancer and obesity44. An old, established blue-chip company with a stellar reputation. About two years ago, it came up with a drug that might cure addiction45 to opium- and cocaine46-based narcotics47. Much more advanced than methadone, which, though it helps many addicts48, is addictive49 itself and is widely abused. Let's call this wonder drug Tarvan—that was its nickname for a while. It was discovered by mistake and was quickly used on every laboratory animal available. The results were outstanding, but then it's hard to duplicate crack addiction in a bunch of rats."
"They needed humans," Clay said.
Pace picked his mustache as his biceps rippled50. "Yes. The potential for Tarvan was enough to keep the big suits awake at night. Imagine, take one pill a day for ninety days and you're clean. Your craving51 for the drugs is gone. You've kicked cocaine, heroin52, crack—just like that. After you're clean, take a Tarvan every other day and you're free for life. Almost an instant cure, for millions of addicts. Think of the profits—charge whatever you want for the drug because somebody somewhere will gladly pay for it. Think of the lives to be saved, the crimes that would not be committed, the families held together, the billions not spent trying to rehab addicts. The more the suits thought about how great Tarvan could be, the faster they wanted it on the market. But, as you say, they still needed humans."
A pause, a sip53 of coffee. The T-shirt trembled with fitness. He continued.
"So they began making mistakes. They picked three places— Mexico City, Singapore, and Belgrade—places far outside the jurisdiction54 of the FDA. Under the guise55 of some vague international relief outfit18, they built rehab clinics, really nice lockdown facilities where the addicts could be completely controlled. They picked the worst junkies they could find, got 'em in, cleaned 'em up, began using Tarvan, though the addicts had no idea. They really didn't care—everything was free."
"Human laboratories," Clay said. The tale so far was fascinating, and Max the fireman had a flair56 for the narrative57.
"Nothing but human laboratories. Far away from the American tort system. And the American press. And the American regulators. It was a brilliant plan. And the drug performed beautifully. After thirty days, Tarvan blunted the cravings for drugs. After sixty days, the addicts seemed quite happy to be clean, and after ninety days they had no fear of returning to the streets. Everything was monitored—diet, exercise, therapy, even conversations. My client had at least one employee per patient, and these clinics had a hundred beds each. After three months, the patients were turned loose, with the agreement that they would return to the clinic every other day for their Tarvan. Ninety percent stayed on the drug, and stayed clean. Ninety percent! Only two percent relapsed into addiction."
"And the other eight percent?"
"They would become the problem, but my client didn't know how serious it would be. Anyway, they kept the beds full, and over eighteen months about a thousand addicts were treated with Tarvan. The results were off the charts. My client could smell billions in profits. And there was no competition. No other company was in serious R&D for an anti-addiction drug. Most pharmaceuticals gave up years ago."
"And the next mistake?"
Max paused for a second, then said, "There were so many." A buzzer58 sounded, lunch had arrived. A waiter rolled it in on a cart and spent five minutes fussing with the setup. Clay stood in front of the window, staring at the top of the Washington Monument, but too deep in thought to see anything. Max tipped the guy and finally
got him out of the room. "You hungry?" he asked. "No. Keep talking," Clay took off his jacket and sat in
the chair. "I think you're getting to the good part."
"Good, bad, depends on how you look at it. The next mistake was to bring the show here. This is where it starts to get real ugly. My client had deliberately59 looked at the globe and picked one spot for Caucasians, one spot for Hispanics, and one spot for Asians. Some Africans were needed."
"We have plenty in D.C." "So thought my client." "You're lying, aren't you? Tell me you're lying." "I've lied to you once, Mr. Carter. And I've promised
not to do it again."
Clay slowly got to his feet and walked around his chair to the window again. Max watched him closely. The lunch was getting cold, but neither seemed to care. Time had been suspended.
Clay turned around and said, "Tequila?" Max nodded and said, "Yes." "And Washad Porter?" "Yes." A minute passed. Clay crossed his arms and leaned
against the wall, facing Max, who was straightening his mustache. "Go ahead," Clay said.
"In about eight percent of the patients, something goes wrong," Max said. "My client has no idea what or how or even who might be at risk. But Tarvan makes them kill. Plain and simple. After about a hundred days, something turns somewhere in the brain, and they feel an irresistible60 impulse to draw blood. It makes no difference if they have a violent history. Age, race, sex, nothing distinguishes the killers61."
"That's eighty dead people?"
"At least. But information is difficult to obtain in the slums of Mexico City."
"How many here, in D.C.?"
It was the first question that made Max squirm, and he dodged62 it. "I'll answer that in a few minutes. Let me finish my story. Would you sit down, please? I don't like to look up when I talk."
Clay took his seat, as directed.
"The next mistake was to circumvent63 the FDA."
"Of course."
"My client has many big friends in this town. It's an old pro7 at buying the politicians through PAC money, and hiring their wives and girlfriends and former assistants, the usual crap that big money does here. A dirty deal was cut. It included big shots from the White House, the State Department, the DEA, the FBI, and a couple of other agencies, none of whom put anything in writing. No money changed hands; there were no bribes64. My client did a nice job of convincing enough people that Tarvan might just save the world if it could perform in one more laboratory. Since the FDA would take two to three years for approval, and since it has few friends in the White House anyway, the deal was cut. These big people, names now forever lost, found a way to smuggle65 Tarvan into a few, selected, federally funded rehab clinics in D.C. If it worked here, then the White House and the big folks would put relentless66 pressure on the FDA for quick approval."
"When this deal was being cut, did your client know about the eight percent?"
"I don't know. My client has not told me everything and never will. Nor do I ask a lot of questions. My job lies elsewhere. However, I suspect that my client did not know about the eight percent. Otherwise, the risks would have been too great to experiment here. This has all happened very fast, Mr. Carter."
"You can call me Clay now."
"Thanks, Clay."
"Don't mention it."
"I said there were no bribes. Again, this is what my client has told me. But let's be realistic. The initial estimate of profits over the next ten years from Tarvan was thirty billion dollars. Profits, not sales. The initial estimate of tax dollars saved by Tarvan was about a hundred billion over the same period of time. Obviously, some money was going to change hands along the line."
"But all that's history?"
"Oh yes. The drug was pulled six days ago. Those wonderful clinics in Mexico City, Singapore, and Belgrade closed up in the middle of the night and all those nice counselors67 disappeared like ghosts. All experiments have been forgotten. All papers have been shredded68. My client has never heard of Tarvan. We'd like to keep it that way."
"I get the feeling that I'm entering the picture at this point."
"Only if you want to. If you decline, then I am prepared to meet with another lawyer."
"Decline what?"
"The deal, Clay, the deal. As of now, there have been five people in D.C. killed by addicts on Tarvan. One poor guy is in a coma69, probably not going to make it. Washad Porter's first victim. That's a total of six. We know who they are, how they died, who killed them, everything. We want you to represent their families. You sign them up, we pay the money, everything is wrapped up quickly, quietly, with no lawsuits71, no publicity72, not the slightest fingerprint73 anywhere."
"Why would they hire me?"
"Because they don't have a clue that they have a case. As far as they know, their loved ones were victims of random74 street violence. It's a way of life here. Your kid gets shot by a street punk, you bury him, the punk gets arrested, you go to the trial, and you hope he goes to prison for the rest of his life. But you never think about a lawsuit70. You gonna sue the street punk? Not even the hungriest lawyer would take that case. They'll hire you because you will go to them, tell them that they have a case, and say you can get four million bucks75 in a very quick, very confidential76 settlement."
"Four million bucks," Clay repeated, uncertain if it was too much or too little.
"Here's our risk, Clay. If Tarvan is discovered by some lawyer, and, frankly77, you're the first one who picked up even a whiff of a scent78, then there could be a trial. Let's say the lawyer is a trial stud who picks him an all-black jury here in D.C."
"Easy enough."
"Of course it's easy. And let's say this lawyer somehow gets the right evidence. Maybe some documents that didn't get shredded. More likely someone working for my client, a whistle-blower. Anyway, the trial plays beautifully for the family of the deceased. There could be a huge verdict. Worse yet, at least for my client, the negative publicity would be horrendous79. The stock price could collapse80. Imagine the worst, Clay, paint your own nightmare, and believe me, these guys see it too. They did something bad. They know it, and they want to correct it. But they're also trying to limit their damages here."
"Four million is a bargain."
"It is, and it isn't. Take Ramon Pumphrey. Age twenty-two, working part-time, earning six thousand dollars a year. With a normal life expectancy81 of fifty-three more years, and assuming annual earnings82 of twice the minimum wage, the economic value of his life, discounted in today's dollars, is about a half a million dollars. That's what he's worth."
"Punitive83 damages would be easy."
"Depends. This case would be very hard to prove, Clay, because there's no paperwork. Those files you snatched yesterday will reveal nothing. The counselors at D Camp and Clean Streets had no idea what kind of drugs they were dispensing84. The FDA never heard of Tar-van. My client would spend a billion on lawyers and experts and whoever else they need to protect them. Litigation would be a war because my client is so guilty!"
"Six times four is twenty-four million." "Add ten for the lawyer." "Ten million?" "Yes, that's the deal, Clay. Ten million for you." "You must be kidding." "Dead serious. Thirty-four total. And I can write the
checks right now." "I need to go for a walk." "How about lunch?" "No, thanks."
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pal
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flunked
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| v.( flunk的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）（考试、某学科的成绩等）不及格；评定（某人）不及格；（因不及格而） 退学 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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investors
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| n.投资者，出资者( investor的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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attire
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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outfits
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| n.全套装备( outfit的名词复数 )；一套服装；集体；组织v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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billboards
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clogged
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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suite
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wavy
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denim
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bodyguard
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laden
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luxurious
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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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salmon
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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glib
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flexed
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| adj.[医]曲折的，屈曲v.屈曲( flex的过去式和过去分词 )；弯曲；（为准备大干而）显示实力；摩拳擦掌 | |
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bulged
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stuntman
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chatter
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contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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freelancer
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specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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multinational
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pharmaceuticals
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| n.医药品；药物( pharmaceutical的名词复数 ) | |
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obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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addiction
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| n.上瘾入迷，嗜好 | |
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cocaine
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| n.可卡因，古柯碱（用作局部麻醉剂） | |
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narcotics
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| n.麻醉药( narcotic的名词复数 )；毒品；毒 | |
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addicts
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| 有…瘾的人( addict的名词复数 )； 入迷的人 | |
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addictive
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| adj.(吸毒等)使成瘾的，成为习惯的 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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52
heroin
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| n.海洛因 | |
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53
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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flair
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| n.天赋，本领，才华；洞察力 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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buzzer
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| n.蜂鸣器；汽笛 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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killers
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| 凶手( killer的名词复数 )； 消灭…者； 致命物； 极难的事 | |
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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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circumvent
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| vt.环绕，包围；对…用计取胜，智胜 | |
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bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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counselors
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| n.顾问( counselor的名词复数 )；律师；（使馆等的）参赞；（协助学生解决问题的）指导老师 | |
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68
shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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fingerprint
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| n.指纹；vt.取...的指纹 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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horrendous
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| adj.可怕的，令人惊惧的 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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punitive
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| adj.惩罚的，刑罚的 | |
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dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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