“What?” Clay said after a long wait.

Another quick search for eavesdroppers, then, “My client has a competitor who’s put a bad drug on the market. No one knows it yet. Their drug is outperforming our drug. But my client now has reliable proof that the bad drug causes tumors. My client has been waiting for the perfect moment to attack.”

“Attack?”

“Yes, as in a class-action suit brought by a young aggressive attorney who possesses the right evidence.”

“You’re offering me another case?”

“Yes. You take the Tarvan deal, wrap things up in thirty days, then we’ll hand you a file that will be worth millions.”

“More than Tarvan?”

“Much more.”

Clay had thus far managed to choke down half his filet mignon without tasting anything. The other half would remain untouched. He was starving but had no appetite. “Why me?” he asked, more to himself than to his new friend.

“That’s the same question lottery winners ask. You’ve won the lottery, Clay. The lawyer’s lottery. You were smart enough to pick up the scent of Tarvan, and at the same time we were searching desperately for a young lawyer we could trust. We found each other, Clay, and we have this one brief moment in time in which you make a decision that will alter the course of your life. Say yes, and you will become a very big lawyer. Say no, and you lose the lottery.”

“I get the message. I need some time to think, to clear my head.”

“You have the weekend.”

“Thanks. Look, I’m taking a quick trip, leaving in the morning, coming back Sunday night. I really don’t think you guys need to follow me.”

“May I ask where?”

“Abaco, in the Bahamas.”

“To see your father?”

Clay was surprised, but then he should not have been. “Yes,” he said.

“For what purpose?”

“None of your business. Fishing.”

“Sorry, but we’re very nervous. I hope you understand.”

“Not really. I’ll give you my flights, just don’t follow me, okay?”

“You have my word.”

10

Great abaco island is a long narrow strip of land at the northern edge of the Bahamas, about a hundred miles east of Florida. Clay had been there once before, four years earlier when he’d scraped together enough money for the airfare. That trip had been a long weekend, one in which Clay had planned to discuss serious issues with his father and discard some baggage. It didn’t happen. Jarrett Carter was still too close to his disgrace and concerned primarily with drinking rum punch from noon on. He was willing to talk about anything but the law and lawyers. This visit would be different.

Clay arrived late in the afternoon on a very warm and very crowded Coconut Air turboprop. The gentleman at Customs glanced at his passport and waved him through. The taxi ride into Marsh Harbor took five minutes, on the wrong side of the road. The driver liked loud gospel music and Clay was not in the mood to argue. Nor was he in the mood to tip. He got out of the car at the harbor and went looking for his father.

Jarrett carter had once filed suit against the President of the United States, and though he lost the case, the experience taught him that every subsequent defendant was an easier target. He feared no one, in court or out. His reputation had been secured with one great victory—a large malpractice verdict against the President of the American Medical Association, a fine doctor who’d made a mistake in surgery. A pitiless jury in a conservative county had returned the verdict, and Jarrett Carter was suddenly a trial lawyer in demand. He picked the toughest cases, won most of them, and by the age of forty was a litigator with a wide reputation. He built a firm known for its bare-knuckle ways in the courtroom. Clay never doubted he would follow his father and spend his career in trials.

The wheels came off when Clay was in college. There was an ugly divorce that cost Jarrett dearly. His firm began to split with, typically, all partners suing each other. Distracted, Jarrett went two years without winning a trial, and his reputation suffered greatly. He made his biggest mistake when he and his accountant began cooking the books—hiding income, overstating expenses. When they got caught, the accountant killed himself but Jarrett did not. He was devastated though, and prison looked likely. Luckily, an old pal from law school was the U.S. Attorney in charge of the prosecution.

The details of their agreement would forever remain a dark secret. There was never an indictment, just an unofficial deal whereby Jarrett quietly closed his office, surrendered his license to practice law, and left the country. He fled with nothing, though those close to the affair felt he’d stashed something off-shore. Clay had seen no indication of any such loot.

So the great Jarrett Carter became a fishing boat captain in the Bahamas, which to some would sound like a wonderful life. Clay found him on the boat, a sixty-foot Wavedancer wedged into a slip in the crowded marina. Other charters were returning from a long day at sea. Sunburned fishermen were admiring their catches. Cameras were flashing. Bahamian deckhands scurried about unloading coolers of iced-down grouper and tuna. They hauled away bags of empty bottles and beer cans.

Jarrett was on the bow with a water hose in one hand and a sponge in the other. Clay watched him for a moment, not wanting to interrupt a man at work. His father certainly looked the part of the expatriate on the run—barefoot with dark leathery skin, a gray Hemingway beard, silver chains around his neck, long-billed fishing cap, ancient white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps. If not for a slight beer belly, Jarrett would have looked quite fit.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he yelled when he saw his son.

“Nice boat,” Clay said, stepping aboard. There was a firm handshake, but nothing more. Jarrett was not the affectionate type, at least not with his son. Several former secretaries had told different stories. He smelled of dried perspiration, salt water, stale beer—a long day at sea. His shorts and white shirt were dirty.

“Yeah, owned by a doctor in Boca. You’re looking good.”

“You too.”

“I’m healthy, that’s all that matters. Grab a beer.” Jarrett pointed to a cooler on the deck.

They popped tops and sat in the canvas chairs while a group of fishermen staggered along the pier. The boat rocked gently. “Busy day, huh?” Clay said.

“We left at sunrise, had a father and his two sons, big strong boys, all of them serious weight lifters. From someplace in New Jersey. I’ve never seen so many muscles on one boat. They were yanking hundred-pound sailfish out of the ocean like they were trout.”

Two women in their forties walked by, carrying small backpacks and fishing supplies. They had the same weary, sunburned look as all other fishermen. One was a little heavy, the other was not, but Jarrett observed them equally until they were out of sight. His gawking was almost embarrassing.

“Do you still have your condo?” Clay asked. The condo he’d seen four years earlier had been a run-down two-room apartment on the back side of Marsh Harbor.

“Yeah, but I live on the boat now. The owner doesn’t come over much, so I just stay here. There’s a sofa in the cabin for you.”

“You live on this boat?”

“Sure, it’s air-conditioned, plenty of room. It’s just me, you know, most of the time.”

They sipped beer and watched another group of fishermen stumble by.

“I’ve got a charter tomorrow,” Jarrett said. “You along for the ride?”

“What else would I do around here?”

“Got some clowns from Wall Street who want to leave at seven in the morning.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I’m hungry,” Jarrett said, jumping to his feet and tossing the beer can in the trash. “Let’s go.”