IN REEDSBURG, THE NEWS that Hanna was laying off twelve hundred workers brought the town to a halt. The announcement came in a letter written by Marcus Hanna and given to all employees.
In fifty years, the company had been through only four layoffs1. It had weathered cycles and slowdowns and had always worked hard to keep everyone on the payroll2. Now that it was in bankruptcy3, the rules were different. The company was under pressure to prove to the court and to its creditors4 that it had a viable5 financial future.
Events beyond the control of management were to blame. Flat sales were a factor, but nothing the company hadn't seen many times before. The crushing blow was the failure to reach a settlement in the class-action lawsuit6. The company had bargained in good faith, but an overzealous and greedy law firm in D.C. had made unreasonable7 demands.
Survival was at stake, and Marcus assured his people that the company was not going under. Drastic cost cutting would be required. A painful reduction in expenses for the next year would guarantee a profitable future.
To the twelve hundred getting pink slips, Marcus promised all the help the company could provide.
Unemployment benefits would last for a year. Obviously, Hanna would hire them back as soon as possible, but no promises were made. The layoffs might become permanent.
In the cafes and barbershops, in the hallways of the schools and the pews of the churches, in the bleachers at soccer and peewee football games, on the sidewalks around the town square, in the beer joints8 and pool halls, the town talked of nothing else. Every one of the eleven thousand residents knew someone who'd just lost his or her job at Hanna. The layoffs were the biggest disaster in the quiet history of Reedsburg. Though the town was tucked away in the Alleghenies, word got out.
The reporter for the Baltimore Press who had written three articles about the Howard County class action was still watching. He was monitoring the bankruptcy filing. He was still chatting with the homeowners as their bricks fell off. News of the layoffs prompted him to go to Reedsburg. He went to the cafes and pool halls and soccer games.
The first of his two stories was as long as a short novel. An author bent10 on deliberate slander11 could not have been crueler. All of Reeds-burg's misery12 could have easily been avoided if the class-action lawyer, J. Clay Carter II of D.C., had not been strident in his quest for large fees.
Since Clay did not read the Baltimore Press, and in fact he was dodging13 most papers and magazines, he might have avoided the news from Reedsburg, at least for a while. But the still-unknown editor(s) of the unauthorized and unwelcome newsletter faxed it over. The latest copy of "The King of Shorts," obviously thrown together in a hurry, ran the Press story.
Clay read it and wanted to sue the newspaper.
However, he would soon forget about the Baltimore Press because a larger nightmare was looming14. A week earlier, a reporter from Newsweek had called and, as usual, been stiff-armed by Miss Glick. Every lawyer dreams of national exposure, but only if it's the high-profile case or billion-dollar verdict. Clay suspected this was neither, and he was right. Newsweek was not really interested in Clay Carter, but rather, his nemesis15.
It was a puff16 piece for Helen Warshaw, two pages of glory that any lawyer would kill for. A striking photo had Ms. Warshaw in a courtroom somewhere, standing17 in front of an empty jury box, looking quite tenacious18 and brilliant, but also very believable. Clay had never seen her before, and he'd hoped she would somehow resemble a "ruthless bitch," as Saulsberry had called her. She did not. She was very attractive—short, dark hair and sad brown eyes that would hold the attention of any jury. Clay stared at her and wished he had her case rather than his. Hopefully, they would never meet. And if so, never in a courtroom.
Ms. Warshaw was one of three partners in a New York firm that specialized19 in attorney malpractice, a rare but growing niche20. Now she was going after some of the biggest and richest lawyers in the country, and she was not going to settle. "I've never seen a case with as much jury appeal," she said, and Clay wanted to slit21 his wrists.
She had fifty Dyloft clients, all dying, all suing. The story gave the quick and dirty history of the class-action litigation.
Of the fifty, for some reason the reporter focused on Mr. Ted9 Worley, of Upper Marlboro, Maryland, and ran a photo of the poor guy sitting in his backyard with his wife behind him, their arms crossed, both faces sad and frowning. Mr. Worley, weak and trembling and angry, recounted his first contact with Clay Carter, a phone call from nowhere while he was trying to enjoy an Orioles game, the frightening news about Dyloft, the urinalysis, the visit from the young lawyer, the filing of the lawsuit. Everything. "I didn't want to settle," he said more than once.
For Newsweek Mr. Worley produced all of his paperwork—the medical records, the court filings, the insidious22 contract with Carter that gave the lawyer the authority to settle for any amount over $50,000. Everything, including copies of the two letters Mr. Worley had written to Mr. Carter in protest of the "sellout." The lawyer did not answer the letters.
According to his doctors, Mr. Worley had less than six months to live. Slowly reading each awful word of the story, Clay felt as if he was responsible for the cancer.
Helen explained that the jury would hear from many of her clients by video, since they would not last until the trial. A rather cruel thing to say, Clay thought, but then everything in the story was wicked.
Mr. Carter declined to comment. For good measure, they threw in the White House photo of Clay and Ridley, and they couldn't resist the tidbit that he had donated $250,000 to the Presidential Review.
"He's gonna need friends like the President," Helen Warshaw said, and Clay could almost feel the bullet between his eyes. He flung the magazine across his office. He wished he'd never been to the White House, never met the President, never written that damned check, never met Ted Worley, never met Max Pace, never thought about going to law school.
He called his pilots and told them to hustle23 to the airport. "Going where, sir?"
"I don't know. Where do you want to go?"
"Beg your pardon?"
"Biloxi, Mississippi."
"One person or two?"
"Just me." He hadn't seen Ridley in twenty-four hours and had no desire to take her with him. He needed time away from the city and anything that reminded him of it.
But two days on French's yacht did little to help. Clay needed the company of another conspirator24, but Patton was too preoccupied25 with other class actions. They ate and drank too much.
French had two associates in the courtroom in Phoenix26 and they were sending e-mails by the hour. He continued to discount Maxatil as a potential target, but he was still watching every move. It was his job, he said, since he was the biggest tort lawyer of them all. He had the experience, the money, the reputation. All mass tort, should, sooner or later, land on his desk.
Clay read the e-mails, and he talked to Mulrooney. Jury selection had taken one full day. Dale Mooneyham was now slowly laying out the plaintiff's case against the drug. The government study was powerful evidence. The jury was keenly interested in it. "So far, so good," Oscar said. "Mooneyham is quite the actor, but Roger has better courtroom skills."
While French juggled27 three calls at once, with a crushing hangover, Clay sunned on the upper deck and tried to forget his problems. Late on the second afternoon, after a couple of vodkas on the deck, French asked, "How much cash you got left?"
"I don't know. I'm afraid to crunch28 the numbers."
"Take a guess."
"Twenty million, maybe."
"And how much insurance?"
"Ten million. They canceled me, but they're still on the line for Dyloft."
French sucked on a lemon and said, "I'm not sure thirty million is enough for you."
"Doesn't appear to be sufficient, does it?"
"No. You have twenty-one claims now, and the number can only go up. We'll be lucky if we can settle these damned things for three mil each."
"How many do you have?"
"Nineteen, as of yesterday." "And how much cash do you have?" "Two hundred million. I'll be all right." Then why don't you just loan me, say, fifty million?
Clay managed to be amused at the way they threw around the numbers. A steward29 brought more alcohol, which they needed.
"And the other guys?" Clay asked.
"Wes is fine. Carlos can survive if his number stays below thirty. Didier's last two wives cleaned him out. He's dead. He'll be the first one to go bankrupt, which he's done before."
The first one? And who might be the second one? After a long silence, Clay asked, "What happens if Goffman wins in Flagstaff? I have all these cases."
"You're gonna be one sick puppy, that's for damned sure. Happened to me ten years ago with a bunch of bad baby cases. I hustled30 around, signed 'em up, sued too fast, then the wheels came off and there was no way to recover anything. My clients were expecting millions because they had these little deformed31 babies, you know, and so they were emotional as hell and impossible to deal with. Bunch of 'em sued me, but I never paid. The lawyer can't promise a result. Cost me a bunch of dough32, though."
"That's not what I want to hear." "How much have you spent on Maxatil?" "Eight million just in advertising33." "I'd just sit on them for a while, see what Goffman
does. I doubt they'll offer anything. They're a bunch of hardasses. With time, your clients will revolt and you can tell them to get lost." A big drink of vodka. "But think positive. Mooneyham hasn't lost in ages. A big verdict, and the whole world is different. You're sitting on a gold mine, again."
"Goffman told me they were coming straight to D.C. next."
"They could be bluffing35, depends on what happens in Flagstaff. If they lose big, then they have to think about settling. A split-decision—liability but small damages— and they might want to try another one. If they choose yours, then you can bring in a trial stud and whip their asses34."
"You wouldn't advise me to try it myself?"
"No. You don't have the experience. It takes years in the courtroom before you're ready for the big leagues, Clay. Years and years."
As fiery36 as he was about big lawsuits37, it was obvious to Clay that Patton had no enthusiasm for the scenario38 he had just laid out. He was not volunteering to be the trial stud in the D.C. case. He was just going through the motions in an effort to comfort his young colleague.
Clay left late the next morning and flew to Pittsburgh, anywhere but D.C. En route, he talked to Oscar, and he read the e-mails and news reports of the trial in Flagstaff. The plaintiff, a sixty-six-year-old woman with breast cancer, had testified and presented her case beautifully. She was very sympathetic, and Mooneyham played her like a fiddle39. Go get 'em, ol' boy, Clay kept mumbling40 to himself.
He rented a car and drove northeast for two hours, into the heart of the Allegheny Mountains. Finding Reedsburg on the map was almost as difficult as finding it on a highway. As he crested41 a hill on the edge of town, he saw a mammoth42 plant in the distance. WELCOME TO REEDSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA, a large sign said. HOME OF THE HANNA PORTLAND CEMENT COMPANY. FOUNDED IN 1946. Two large smokestacks emitted a chalky dust that drifted slowly away with the wind. At least it's still operating, Clay thought.
He followed a sign to downtown and found a parking place on Main Street. Wearing jeans and a baseball cap, with three days' worth of dark stubble, he was not worried about being recognized. He walked into Ethel's Coffee Shop and took a seat on a wobbly stool at the counter. Ethel herself greeted him and took his order. Coffee and a grilled43 cheese sandwich.
At a table behind him two old-timers were talking football. The Reedsburg High Cougars44 had lost three straight, and both of them could do a better job calling plays than the head coach. There was a home game that night, according to the schedule on the wall near the cash register.
When Ethel brought the coffee she said, "You just passing through?"
"Yes," Clay said, realizing that she knew every one of Reedsburg's eleven thousand souls.
"Where you from?"
"Pittsburgh."
He couldn't tell if that was good or bad, but she left with no further questions. At another table, two younger men were talking about jobs. It was soon clear that neither was employed. One wore a denim45 cap with a Hanna Cement logo on the front. As Clay ate his grilled cheese, he listened as they fretted46 over unemployment benefits, mortgages, credit-card bills, part-time work. One was planning to surrender his Ford47 pickup48 to the local dealer49 who had promised to resell it for him.
Against the wall by the front door was a folding table with a large plastic water bottle on it. A handmade poster urged everyone to contribute to the "Hanna Fund." A collection of coins and bills half-filled the bottle.
"What's that for?" Clay asked Ethel when she refilled his cup.
"Oh, that. It's a drive to collect money for the families laid off out at the plant."
"Which plant?" Clay asked, trying to appear ignorant.
"Hanna Cement, biggest employer in town. Twelve hundred folks got laid off last week. We stick together around here. Got those things all over town—stores, cafes, churches, even the schools. Raised over six thousand so far. Money'll go for light bills and groceries if things get bad. Otherwise, it'll go to the hospital."
"Did business turn bad?" Clay said, chewing. Putting the sandwich in his mouth was easy; swallowing was becoming more difficult.
"No, the plant's always been well run. The Hannas know what they're doing. Got this crazy lawsuit down around Baltimore somewhere. Lawyers got greedy, wanted too much money, forced Hanna into bankruptcy."
"It's a damned shame," said one of the old-timers. Coffee shop conversations were shared by all present. "Didn't have to happen. The Hannas tried to settle the damned thing, made a good-faith effort, but these slimebags in D.C. had 'em at gunpoint. Hannas said, 'Screw you,' and walked away."
In a flash, Clay thought: Not a bad summary of events.
"I worked there forty years, never missed a paycheck. A damned shame."
Because Clay was expected to say something to move along the conversation, he said, "Layoffs are rare, huh?"
"The Hannas don't believe in laying folks off."
"Will they hire them back?"
"They'll try. But the bankruptcy court is in charge now."
Clay nodded and quickly turned back to his sandwich. The two younger men were on their feet, heading for the cash register. Ethel shooed them away. "No charge, fellas. It's on the house."
They nodded politely, and as they left both dropped some coins into the Hanna Fund. A few minutes later, Clay said good-bye to the old-timers, paid his bill, thanked Ethel, and dropped a $100 bill into the water bottle.
After dark, he sat alone on the visitors side and watched the Reedsburg Cougars do battle with the Enid Elk50. The home stands were filled almost to capacity. The band was loud, the crowd rowdy and eager for a win. But the football failed to hold his attention. He looked at the roster51 and wondered how many players listed there were from families hit by the layoffs. He gazed across the field to the rows and rows of Reedsburg fans and wondered who had jobs and who did not.
Before the kickoff, and just after the national anthem52, a local minister had prayed for the safety of the players, and for the renewed economic strength of the community. He had ended his prayer with, "Help us through these hard times, O God. Amen."
If Clay Carter had ever felt worse, he could not remember when.
收听单词发音 |
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layoffs
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| 临时解雇( layoff的名词复数 )； 停工，停止活动 | |
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payroll
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| n.工资表，在职人员名单，工薪总额 | |
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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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viable
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| adj.可行的，切实可行的，能活下去的 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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juggled
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| v.歪曲( juggle的过去式和过去分词 )；耍弄；有效地组织；尽力同时应付（两个或两个以上的重要工作或活动） | |
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crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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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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asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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bluffing
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| n. 威吓，唬人 动词bluff的现在分词形式 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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cougars
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| n.美洲狮( cougar的名词复数 ) | |
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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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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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pickup
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| n.拾起，获得 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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elk
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| n.麋鹿 | |
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roster
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| n.值勤表，花名册 | |
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anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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