THE ENTIRE FLOOR above his firm became vacant at the end of the year. Clay leased half of it and consolidated1 his operations. He brought in the twelve paralegals and five secretaries from the Sweatshop; the Yale Branch lawyers who'd been in other space were likewise transferred to Connecticut Avenue, to the land of higher rents, where they felt more at home. He wanted his entire firm under one roof, and close at hand, because he planned to work them all until they dropped.
He attacked the new year with a ferocious2 work schedule—in the office by six with breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner at his desk. He was usually there until eight or nine at night, and left little doubt that he expected similar hours from those who wanted to stay.
Jonah did not. He was gone by the middle of January, his office cleared and vacated, his farewells quick. The sailboat was waiting. Don't bother to call. Just wire the money to an account in Aruba.
Oscar Mulrooney was measuring Jonah's office before he got out the door. It was larger and had a better view, which meant nothing to him, but it was closer to Clay's and that was what mattered. Mulrooney smelled money, serious fees. He missed on Dyloft, but he would not miss again. He and the rest of the Yale boys had been shafted3 by the corporate4 law they'd been trained to covet5, and now they were determined6 to make a mint in retribution. And what better way than by outright7 solicitation8 and ambulance-chasing? Nothing was more offensive to the stuffed shirts in the blue-blood firms. Mass tort litigation was not practicing law. It was a roguish form of entrepreneurship.
The aging Greek playboy who'd married Paulette Tullos and then left her had somehow gotten wind of her new money. He showed up in D.C., called her at the swanky condo he'd given her, and left a message on her answering machine. When Paulette heard his voice, she raced from her home and flew to London, where she'd spent the holidays and was still in hiding. She e-mailed Clay a dozen times while he was on Mustique, telling him of her predicament and instructing him on exactly how to handle her divorce upon his return. Clay filed the necessary papers, but the Greek was nowhere to be found. Nor was Paulette. She might come back in a few months; she might not. "Sorry, Clay," she said on the phone. "But I really don't want to work anymore."
So Mulrooney became the confidant, the unofficial partner with big ambitions. He and his team had been studying the shifting landscape of class-action litigation. They learned the law and the procedures. They read the scholarly articles by the academics, and they read the down-in-the-trenches war stories from trial lawyers. There were dozens of Web sites—one that purported9 to list all class actions now pending10 in the United States, a total of eleven thousand; one that instructed potential plaintiffs on how to join a class and receive compensation; one that specialized11 in lawsuits13 involving women's health; one for the men; several for the Skinny Ben diet pill fiasco; several for tobacco litigation. Never had so much brainpower, backed by so much cash, been aimed at the makers14 of bad products.
Mulrooney had a plan. With so many class actions already filed, the firm could spend its considerable resources in rounding up new clients. Because Clay had the money for advertising15 and marketing16, they could pick the most lucrative17 class actions and zero in on untapped plaintiffs. As with Dyloft, almost every lawsuit12 that had been settled was left open for a period of years to allow new participants to collect what they were entitled to. Clay's firm could simply ride the coattails of other mass tort lawyers, sort of pick up the pieces, but for huge fees. He used the example of Skinny Bens. The best estimate of the number of potential plaintiffs was around three hundred thousand, with perhaps as many as a hundred thousand still unidentified and certainly unrepresented. The litigation had been settled; the company was forking over billions. A claimant simply had to register with the class-action administrator18, prove her medicals, and collect the money.
Like a general moving his troops, Clay assigned two lawyers and a paralegal to the Skinny Ben front. This was less than what Mulrooney asked for, but Clay had bigger plans. He laid out the war on Maxatil, a lawsuit that he would direct himself. The government report, still un-released and evidently stolen by Max Pace, was one hundred forty pages long and filled with damning results. Clay read it twice before he gave it to Mulrooney.
On a snowy night in late January, they worked until after midnight going through it, then made detailed19 plans for the attack. Clay assigned Mulrooney and two other lawyers, two paralegals, and three secretaries to the Maxatil litigation.
At two in the morning, with a heavy snow hitting the conference room window, Mulrooney said he had something unpleasant to discuss. "We need more money."
"How much?" Clay asked.
"There are thirteen of us now, all from big firms where we were doing quite well. Ten of us are married, most have kids, we're feeling the pressure, Clay. You gave us one-year contracts for seventy-five thousand, and, believe me, we're happy to get them. You have no idea what it's like to go to Yale, or a school like it, get wined and dined by the big firms, take a job, get married, then get tossed into the streets with nothing. Does something to the old ego20, you know?"
"I understand."
"You doubled my salary and I appreciate it more than you'll ever know. I'm getting by. But the other guys are struggling. And they're very proud men."
"How much?"
"I'd hate to lose any of them. They're bright. They work their tails off."
"Let's do it like this, Oscar. I'm a very generous guy these days. I'll give all of you a new contract for one year, at two hundred grand. What I get in return is a ton of hours. We're on the brink21 here of something huge, bigger than last year. You guys deliver, and I'll do bonuses. Big fat bonuses. I love bonuses, Oscar, for obvious reasons. Deal?"
"You got it, chief."
The snow was too heavy to drive in, so they continued the marathon. Clay had preliminary reports on the company in Reedsburg, Pennsylvania, that was making defective22 brick mortar23. Wes Saulsberry had passed along the secret file he'd mentioned in New York. Masonry24 cement wasn't as exciting as bladder tumors or blood clots25 or leaky heart valves, but the money was just as green. They assigned two lawyers and a paralegal to prepare the class action and to go find some plaintiffs.
They were together for ten straight hours in the conference room, guzzling26 coffee, eating stale bagels, watching the snowfall become a blizzard27, plotting the year. Though the session began as an exchange of ideas, it grew into something much more important. A new law firm took shape, one with a clear sense of where it was going and what it would become.
THE PRESIDENT NEEDED HIM! Though re-election was two years away his enemies were already raising money by the trainload. He had stood firm with the trial lawyers since his days as a rookie Senator, in fact he'd once been a small-town litigator himself, and was still proud of it, and he now needed Clay's help in fending28 off the selfish interests of big business. The vehicle he proposed for getting to know Clay personally was something called the Presidential Review, a select group of high-powered trial lawyers and labor29 types who could write nice checks and spend time talking about the issues.
The enemies were planning another massive assault called Tort Reform Now. They wanted to put heinous30 caps on both actual and punitive31 damages in lawsuits. They wanted to dismantle32 the class-action system that had served them (mass tort boys) so well. They wanted to prevent folks from suing doctors.
The President would stand firm, as always, but he sure needed some help. The handsome, gold-embossed, three-page letter ended with a plea for cash, and lots of it. Clay called Patton French, who, oddly enough, happened to be in his office in Biloxi. French was abrupt33, as usual. "Write the damned check," he said.
Phone calls went back and forth34 between Clay and the Director of the Presidential Review. Later, he couldn't remember how much he had initially35 planned to contribute, but it was nothing close to the $250,000 check he eventually wrote. A courier picked it up and delivered it to the White House. Four hours later, another courier delivered to Clay a small envelope from the White House. The note was handwritten on the President's correspondence card:
Dear Clay: I'm in a Cabinet meeting (trying to stay awake), otherwise I would've called. Thanks for the support. Let's have dinner and say hello.
Signed by the President.
Nice, but for a quarter of a million bucks36 he expected nothing less. The next day another courier delivered a thick invitation from the White House. URGENT REPLY REQUESTED was stamped on the outside. Clay and guest were asked to attend an official state dinner honoring the President of Argentina. Black tie, of course. RSVP immediately because the event was only four days away. Amazing what $250,000 would buy in Washington.
Ridley, of course, needed the proper dress, and since Clay was paying for it he went shopping with her. And he did so without complaining because he wanted some input37 into what she wore. Left unsupervised, she might shock the Argentines and everyone else for that matter with see-through fabrics38 and slits39 up to her waist. No sir, Clay wanted to see the outfit40 before she bought it.
But she was surprisingly modest in both taste and expense. Everything looked good on her; she was, after all, a model, though she seemed to be working less and less. She finally chose a stunning41 but simple red dress that revealed much less flesh than what she normally showed. At $3,000, it was a bargain. Shoes, a string of small pearls, a gold and diamond bracelet42, and Clay escaped with just under $15,000 in damages.
Sitting in the limo outside the White House, waiting as the ones in front of them were searched by a swarm43 of guards, Ridley said, "I can't believe I'm doing this. Me, a poor girl from Georgia, going to the White House." She was wrapped around Clay's right arm. His hand was halfway44 up a thigh45. Her accent was more pronounced, something that happened when she was nervous.
"Hard to believe," he said, quite excited himself.
When they got out of the limo, under an awning46 on the East Wing, a Marine47 in parade dress took Ridley's arm and began an escort that took them into the East Room of the White House, where the guests were congregating48 and having a drink. Clay followed along, watching Ridley's rear, enjoying every second of it. The Marine reluctantly let go, and left to pick up another escort. A photographer took their picture.
They moved to the first cluster of conversation and introduced themselves to people they would never see again. Dinner was announced, and the guests proceeded into the State Dining Room, where fifteen tables of ten were packed together and covered with more china and silver and crystal than had ever been collected in one place. Seating was all prearranged, and no one sat with his or her spouse49 or guest. Clay escorted Ridley to her table, found her seat, helped her into it, then pecked her on the cheek and said, "Good luck." She flashed a model's smile, brilliant and confident, but he knew she was, at that moment, a scared little girl from Georgia. Before he was ten feet away, two men were hovering50 over her, grasping her hand with the warmest of introductions.
Clay was in for a long night. To his right was a society queen from Manhattan, a shriveled, prune-faced old battle-ax who'd been starving herself for so long she looked like a cadaver51. She was deaf and talked at full volume. To his left was the daughter of a Midwestern shopping mall tycoon52 who'd gone to college with the President. Clay turned his attention to her and labored53 mightily54 for five minutes before realizing she had nothing to say.
The clock stopped moving.
His back was to Ridley; he had no idea how she was surviving.
The President spoke55, then dinner was served. An opera singer across the table from Clay began to feel his wine and started telling dirty jokes. He was loud and twangy, from somewhere in the mountains, and he was completely uninhibited when it came to using obscenities in mixed company, and in the White House no less.
Three hours after he sat down, Clay stood up and said good-bye to all his wonderful new friends. The dinner was over; a band was tuning56 up back in the East Room. He grabbed Ridley and they headed for the music.
Shortly before midnight, as the crowd dwindled57 down to a few dozen, the President and First Lady joined the heartier58 ones for a dance or two. He seemed genuinely pleased to meet Mr. Clay Carter. "Been reading your press, son, good job," he said.
"Thank you, Mr. President."
"Who's the chick?"
"A friend." What would the feminists59 do if they knew he used the word chick?
"Can I dance with her?"
"Sure, Mr. President."
And with that, Ms. Ridal Petashnakol, a twenty-four-year-old former exchange student from Georgia, got squeezed and hugged and otherwise networked by the President of the United States.
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consolidated
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| a.联合的 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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shafted
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| 有箭杆的，有柄的，有羽轴的 | |
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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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covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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purported
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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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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makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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clots
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| n.凝块( clot的名词复数 )；血块；蠢人；傻瓜v.凝固( clot的第三人称单数 ) | |
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guzzling
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| v.狂吃暴饮，大吃大喝( guzzle的现在分词 ) | |
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blizzard
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| n.暴风雪 | |
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fending
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| v.独立生活，照料自己( fend的现在分词 )；挡开，避开 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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punitive
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| adj.惩罚的，刑罚的 | |
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dismantle
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| vt.拆开，拆卸；废除，取消 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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initially
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| adv.最初，开始 | |
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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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input
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| n.输入(物)；投入；vt.把(数据等)输入计算机 | |
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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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slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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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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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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congregating
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的现在分词 ) | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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cadaver
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| n.尸体 | |
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tycoon
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| n.有钱有势的企业家，大亨 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heartier
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| 亲切的( hearty的比较级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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feminists
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| n.男女平等主义者，女权扩张论者( feminist的名词复数 ) | |
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