ALL PARTICIPANTS HAD been sworn to secrecy1. Thick documents had been signed by the lawyers promising2 complete confidentiality3 concerning the Dyloft negotiations4 and settlement. Before they left New York, Patton French had told his group, "It'll be in the papers within forty-eight hours. Philo will leak it, and their stock will go up."
The following morning, The Wall Street Journal ran the story; of course, all blame was laid at the bar. MASS TORT LAWYERS FORCE QUICK DYLOFT SETTLEMENT ran the headline. Unnamed sources had plenty to say. The details were accurate. A pool of $2.5 billion would be set up for the first round of settlements, with another potential $1.5 billion as a reserve for more serious cases.
Philo Products opened at $82 and quickly jumped to $85. One analyst6 said investors7 were relieved at news of the settlement. The company would be able to control the costs of litigation. No prolonged lawsuits8. No threat of wild verdicts. The trial lawyers had been reined9 in on this one, and unnamed sources at Philo were calling it a victory. Clay monitored the news on the television in his office.
He also fielded calls from reporters. At eleven, one from The Journal arrived, with a photographer. During the preliminaries, Clay learned that he knew as much about the settlement as Clay himself. "These things are never kept quiet," he said. "We knew which hotel you guys were hiding in."
Off the record, Clay answered all questions. Then on the record, he wouldn't comment on the settlement. He did offer some insights about himself, his rapid rise from the depths of OPD to mass tort zillionaire, all in just a few months, and the impressive firm he was building, etcetera. He could see the story taking shape, and it would be spectacular.
Next morning, he read it online before sunrise. There was his face, in one of those hideous10 sketches11 made famous by The Journal, and just above it was the headline THE KING OF TORTS, FROM $40,000 TO $100,000,000 IN SIX MONTHS. Under it was a subtitle12: "You gotta love the law!"
It was a very long story, and all about Clay. His background, growing up in D.C., his father, Georgetown Law School, generous quotes from Glenda and Jermaine over at OPD, a comment from a professor he'd forgotten about, a brief recap of the Dyloft litigation. The best part was a lengthy13 discussion with Patton French, in which the "notorious mass tort lawyer" described Clay Carter as our "brightest young star" and "fearless" and "a major new force to be reckoned with."
"Corporate14 America should tremble at his name," continued the bombast15. And, finally, "No doubt, Clay is the newest King of Torts."
He read it twice then e-mailed it to Rebecca with a note at the top and bottom: "Rebecca, Please Wait, Clay." He sent it to her apartment and her office, and, while he was at it, he removed his own message and faxed it to the offices of BVH Group. The wedding was a month away.
When he finally arrived at the office, Miss Glick handed him a stack of messages—about half from law school friends who jokingly asked for loans, about half from journalists of all varieties. The office was even more chaotic16 than normal. Paillette, Jonah, and Rodney were still floating and completely unfocused. Every client wanted the money that day.
Fortunately, it was the Yale Branch, under the emerging brilliance18 of Mr. Oscar Mulrooney, that stepped up to the task and put together a plan to survive until the settlement. Clay moved Mulrooney into an office down the hall, doubled his salary, and left him in charge of the mess.
Clay needed a break.
BECAUSE JARRETT CARTER'S PASSPORT had been quietly confiscated19 by the U.S. Department of Justice, his movements were somewhat limited. He wasn't even certain he could return to his country, though in six years he had never tried. The wink-and-hand-shake deal that got him out of town without an indictment20 had many loose ends. "We'd better stick to the Bahamas," he told Clay on the phone.
They left Abaco on a Cessna Citation21 V, another toy from the fleet Clay had discovered. They were headed for Nassau, thirty minutes away. Jarrett waited until they were airborne before saying, "Okay, spill your guts22." He was already gulping23 a beer. And he was wearing frayed24 denim25 shorts and sandals and an old fishing cap, very much the expatriate banished26 to the islands and living the life of a pirate.
Clay opened a beer himself, then began with Tarvan and ended with Dyloft. Jarrett had heard rumors27 of his son's success, but he never read newspapers and tried his best to ignore any news from home. Another beer as he tried to digest the idea of having five thousand clients at once.
The $100 million closed his eyes, turned him pale, or least a slightly lighter28 shade of bronze, and it creased29 his leathery forehead with a wave of thick wrinkles. He shook his head, drank some beer, then began laughing.
Clay pressed on, determined30 to finish before they landed.
"What are you doing with the money?" Jarrett asked, still in shock.
"Spending it like crazy."
Outside the Nassau airport they found a cab, a 1974 yellow Cadillac with a driver smoking pot. He got them safely to the Sunset Hotel and Casino on Paradise Island, facing Nassau Harbor.
Jarrett headed for the blackjack tables with the five thousand in cash his son had given him. Clay headed for the pool and the tanning cream. He wanted sun and bikinis.
THE BOAT WAS A sixty-three-foot catamaran made by a builder of fine sailboats in Fort Lauderdale. The captain/salesman was a cranky old Brit named Maltbee whose sidekick was a scrawny Bahamian deckhand. Maltbee snarled31 and fussed until they were out of Nassau Harbor and into the bay. They were headed for the southern edge of channel, for a half day in the brilliant sun and calm water, a lengthy test drive of a boat that Jarrett said could make some real money.
When the engine was turned off and the sails went up, Clay went down to examine the cabin. Supposedly it could sleep eight, plus a crew of two. Tight quarters, but then everything was junior-sized. The shower was too small to turn around in. The master suite32 would fit in his smallest closet. Life on a sailboat.
According to Jarrett, it was impossible to make money catching33 fish. Business was sporadic34. A charter every day was required to turn a profit, but then the work was too hard for that. Deckhands were impossible to keep. Tips were never enough. Most clients were tolerable but there were plenty of bad ones to sour the job. He'd been a charter captain for five years and it was taking its toll35.
The real money was in private sailboat charters for small groups of wealthy people who wanted to work, not be pampered36. Semiserious sailors. Take a great boat—your own boat, preferably one without liens37 on it—and sail around the Caribbean for a month at a time. Jarrett had a friend from Freeport who'd been running two such boats for years and was making serious money. The clients mapped their course, chose their times and routes, selected their menus and booze, and off they went with a captain and a first mate for a month. "Ten thousand bucks38 a week," Jarrett said. "Plus you're sailing, enjoying the wind and the sun and the sea, going nowhere. Unlike fishing, where you gotta catch a big marlin or everybody's mad."
When Clay emerged from the cabin Jarrett was at the helm, looking very much at ease, as if he'd been racing39 fine yachts for years. Clay moved along the deck and stretched out in the sun.
They found some wind and began slicing through the smooth water, to the east along the bay, with Nassau fading in the distance. Clay had stripped down to his shorts and was covered in cream; he was about to doze40 when Maltbee crept up beside him.
"Your father tells me you're the one with the money." Maltbee's eyes were hidden behind thick sunshades.
"I guess he's right," Clay said.
"She's a four-million-dollar boat, practically new, one of our best. Built for one of those dot-commers who lost his money faster than he made it. A sorry lot of them, if you ask me. Anyway, we're stuck with it. Market's slow. We'll move it for three million, and at that you should be charged with thievery. If you incorporate the boat under Bahamian law as a charter company, there are all sorts of tax tricks. I can't explain them, but we have a lawyer in Nassau who does the paperwork. If you can catch him sober."
"I'm a lawyer."
"Then why are you sober?"
Ha, ha, ha; they both managed an awkward laugh.
"What about depreciation41?" Clay asked.
"Heavy, quite heavy, but again, that's for you lawyers. I'm just a salesman. I think your old man likes it though. Boats like these are quite the rage from here to Bermuda to South America. It'll make money."
So says the salesman, and a bad one at that. If Clay bought a boat for his father, his sole dream was that it would break even and not become a black hole. Maltbee disappeared as quickly as he had materialized.
Three days later, Clay signed a contract to pay $2.9 million for the boat. The lawyer, who was in fact not completely sober during either of the two meetings Clay had with him, chartered the Bahamian company in Jarrett's name only. The boat was a gift from son to father, an asset to be hidden away in the islands, much like Jarrett himself.
Over dinner their last night in Nassau, in the back of a seedy saloon packed with drug dealers42 and tax cheaters and alimony dodgers43, virtually all of them American, Clay cracked crab44 legs and finally asked a question he'd been considering for weeks now. "Any chance you could ever return to the States?"
"For what?"
"To practice law. To be my partner. To litigate and kick ass5 again."
The question made Jarrett smile. The thought of father and son working together. The very idea that Clay wanted him to return; back to an office, back to something respectable. The boy lived under a dark cloud that the old man had left behind. However, given the boy's recent success the cloud was certainly shrinking.
"I doubt it, Clay. I surrendered my license45 and promised to stay away."
"Would you want to come back?"
"Maybe to clear my name, but never to practice law again. There's too much baggage, too many old enemies still lurking46 around. I'm fifty-five years old, and that's a bit late to start over."
"Where will you be in ten years?"
"I don't think like that. I don't believe in calendars and schedules and lists of things to do. Setting goals is such a stupid American habit. Not for me. I try to get through today, maybe give a thought or two to tomorrow, and that's it. Plotting the future is damned ridiculous."
"Sorry I asked."
"Live for the moment, Clay. Tomorrow will take care of itself. You've got your hands full right now, seems to me."
"The money should keep me occupied."
"Don't blow it, son. I know that looks impossible, but you'll be surprised. New friends are about to pop up all over the place. Women will drop from the sky."
"When?"
"Just wait. I read a book once—Fool's Gold, or something like that. One story after another about great fortunes that had been lost by the idiots who had them. Fascinating reading. Get a copy."
"I think I'll pass."
Jarrett threw a shrimp47 in his mouth and changed the subject, "Are you going to help your mother?"
"Probably not. She doesn't need help. Her husband is wealthy, remember?"
"When have you talked to her?"
"It's been eleven years, Dad. Why do you care?"
"Just curious. It's odd. You marry a woman, live with her for twenty-five years, and you sometimes wonder what she's doing."
"Let's talk about something else."
"Rebecca?"
"Next."
"Let's go hit the crap tables. I'm up four thousand bucks."
WHEN MR. TED17 WORLEY of Upper Marlboro, Maryland, received a thick envelope from the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II, he immediately opened it. He'd seen various news reports about the Dyloft settlement. He'd watched the Dyloft Web site religiously, waiting for some sign that it was time to collect his money from Ackerman Labs.
The letter began, "Dear Mr. Worley: Congratulations.
Your class-action claim against Ackerman Labs has been settled in the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of Mississippi. As a Group One Plaintiff, your portion of the settlement is $62,000. Pursuant to the Contract for Legal Services entered into by you and this law firm, a 28 percent contingency48 for attorneys' fees is now applicable. In addition, a deduction49 of $1,400 for litigation expenses has been approved by the court. Your net settlement is $43,240. Please sign the enclosed agreement and acknowledgment forms and return them immediately in the enclosed envelope. Sincerely, Oscar Mulrooney, Attorney-at-Law."
"A different lawyer every damned time," Mr. Worley said as he kept flipping50 pages. There was a copy of the court order approving the settlement, and a notice to all class-action plaintiffs, and some other papers that he suddenly had no desire to read.
$43,240! That was the grand sum he would receive from a sleazy pharmaceutical51 giant that deliberately52 put into the marketplace a drug that caused four tumors to grow in his bladder? $43,240 for months of fear and stress and uncertainty53 about living or dying? $43,240 for the ordeal54 of a microscopic55 knife and scope in a tube slid up his penis and into his bladder where the four growths were removed one by one and retrieved56 back through his penis? $43,240 for three days of lumps and blood passed through his urine?
He called six times and left six hot messages and waited six hours until Mr. Mulrooney called him back. "Who the hell are you?" Mr. Worley began pleasantly.
Oscar Mulrooney, in the past ten days, had become an expert at handling such calls. He explained that he was the attorney in charge of Mr. Worley's case.
"This settlement is a joke!" Mr. Worley said. "Fortythree thousand dollars is criminal."
"Your settlement is sixty-two thousand, Mr. Worley," Oscar said.
"I'm getting forty-three, son."
"No, you're getting sixty-two. You agreed to give one-third to your attorney, without whom you would be getting nothing. It's been reduced to twenty-eight percent by the settlement. Most lawyers charge forty-five or fifty percent."
"Well, aren't I a lucky bastard58. I'm not accepting it."
To which Oscar offered a brief and well-rehearsed narrative59 about how Ackerman Labs could only pay so much without going bankrupt, an event that would leave Mr. Worley with even less, if anything at all.
"That's nice," Mr. Worley said. "But I'm not accepting the settlement."
"You have no choice."
"The hell I don't."
"Look at the Contract for Legal Services, Mr. Worley. It's page eleven in the packet you have there. Paragraph eight is called the Preauthorization. Read the language, sir, and you'll see that you authorized60 this firm to settle for anything above fifty thousand dollars."
"I remember that, but it was described to me as a starting point. I was expecting much more."
"Your settlement has already been approved by the court, sir. That's the way class actions work. If you don't sign the acceptance form, then your portion will stay in the pot and eventually go to someone else."
"You're a bunch of crooks61, you know that? I don't know who's worse—the company that made the drug or my own lawyers who're screwing me out of a fair settlement."
"Sorry you feel that way."
"You're not sorry about a damned thing. Paper says you're getting a hundred million bucks. Thieves!"
Mr. Worley slammed the phone down and flung the papers across his kitchen.
收听单词发音 |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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confidentiality
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| n.秘而不宣，保密 | |
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negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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analyst
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| n.分析家，化验员；心理分析学家 | |
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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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lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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subtitle
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| n.副题（书本中的），说明对白的字幕 | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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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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bombast
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| n.高调，夸大之辞 | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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citation
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| n.引用，引证，引用文；传票 | |
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guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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gulping
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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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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denim
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| n.斜纹棉布；斜纹棉布裤，牛仔裤 | |
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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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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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sporadic
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| adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular；分散的 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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liens
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| n.留置权，扣押权( lien的名词复数 ) | |
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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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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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dodgers
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| n.躲闪者，欺瞒者( dodger的名词复数 ) | |
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crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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shrimp
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| n.虾，小虾；矮小的人 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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flipping
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| 讨厌之极的 | |
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pharmaceutical
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| adj.药学的，药物的；药用的，药剂师的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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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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authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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