“Okay, what do you want?”

“Through our Internet sources we found your name as a potential user of an arthritis drug called Dyloft. Can you tell me if you use this drug?”

“Maybe I don’t want to tell you what prescriptions I’m taking.”

A perfectly valid point, one Clay thought he was ready for.

“Of course you don’t have to, Mr. Worley. But the only way to determine if you’re entitled to a settlement is to tell me if you’re using the drug.”

“That damned Internet,” Mr. Worley mumbled, then had a quick conversation with his wife who, evidently, was somewhere near the phone.

“What kind of settlement?” he asked.

“Let’s talk about that in a minute. I need to know if you’re using Dyloft. If not, then you’re a lucky man.”

“Well, uh, I guess it’s not a secret, is it?”

“No sir.” Of course it was a secret. Why should a person’s medical history be anything but confidential? The little fibs were necessary, Clay kept telling himself. Look at the big picture. Mr. Worley and thousands like him might never know they’re using a bad product unless they were told. Ackerman Labs certainly hadn’t come clean. That was Clay’s job.

“Yeah, I take Dyloft.”

“For how long?”

“Maybe a year. It works great.”

“Any side effects?”

“Such as?”

“Blood in your urine. A burning sensation when you urinate.” Clay was resigned to the fact that he would be discussing bladders and urine with many people in the months to come. There was simply no way around it.

The things they don’t prepare you for in law school.

“No. Why?”

“We have some preliminary research that Ackerman Labs, the company that makes Dyloft, is trying to cover up. The drug has been found to cause bladder tumors in some of the folks who use it.”

And so Mr. Ted Worley, who just moments earlier had been minding his own business and watching his beloved Orioles, would now spend the rest of that night and most of the next week worrying about tumors growing wild in his bladder. Clay felt rotten and wanted to apologize, but, again, he told himself that it had to be done. How else might Mr. Worley learn the truth? If the poor man indeed had the tumors, wouldn’t he want to know about them?

Holding the phone with one hand and rubbing his side with the other, Mr. Worley said, “You know, come to think of it, I do remember a burning sensation a couple of days ago.”

“What are you talking about?” Clay heard Mrs. Worley say in the background.

“If you don’t mind,” Mr. Worley said to Mrs. Worley.

Clay charged in before the bickering got out of hand. “My firm represents a lot of Dyloft users. I think you should consider getting tested.”

“What kind of test?”

“It’s a urinalysis. We have a doctor who can do it tomorrow. Won’t cost you a dime.”

“What if he finds something wrong?”

“Then we can discuss your options. When the news of Dyloft comes out, in just a few days, there will be many lawsuits. My firm will be a leader in the attack on Ackerman Labs. I’d like to have you as a client.”

“Maybe I should talk to my doctor.”

“You can certainly do that, Mr. Worley. But he may have some liability too. He prescribed the drug. It might be best if you get an unbiased opinion.”

“Hang on.” Mr. Worley covered the receiver with his hand and had a contentious chat with his wife. When he returned he said, “I don’t believe in suing doctors.”

“Nor do I. I specialize in going after the big corporations that harm people.”

“Should I stop taking the drug?”

“Let’s do the test first. Dyloft will likely be pulled off the market sometime this summer.”

“Where do I do the test?”

“The doctor is in Chevy Chase. Can you go tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure, why not? Seems silly to wait, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.” Clay gave him the name and address of a doctor Max Pace had located. The $80 exam would cost Clay $300 a pop, but it was simply the price of doing business.

When the details were finished, Clay apologized for the intrusion, thanked him for his time, and left him to suffer while he watched the rest of the game. Only when he hung up did Clay feel the beads of moisture just above his eyebrows. Soliciting cases by phone? What kind of lawyer had he become?

A rich one, he kept telling himself.

This would require thick skin, something Clay did not possess and was not certain he could develop.

Two days later, Clay pulled into the Worleys’ driveway in Upper Marlboro and met them at the front door. The urinalysis, which included a cytological exam, revealed abnormal cells in the urine, a clear sign, according to Max Pace and his extensive and ill-gotten medical research, that there were tumors in the bladder. Mr. Worley had been referred to a urologist whom he would see the following week. The examination and removal of the tumors would be by cystoscopic surgery, running a tiny scope and a knife in a tube through the penis into the bladder, and while this was purported to be fairly routine, Mr. Worley saw nothing ordinary about it. He was worried sick. Mrs. Worley said he hadn’t slept the last two nights, nor had she.

As much as he wanted to, Clay could not tell them that the tumors were probably benign. Better to let the doctors do that after the surgery.

Over instant coffee with powdered creamer, Clay explained the contract for his services and answered their questions about the litigation. When Ted Worley signed at the bottom, he became the first Dyloft plaintiff in the country.

And for a while it seemed as if he might be the only one. Working the phones nonstop, Clay succeeded in convincing eleven people to show up for the urinalysis. All eleven tested negative. “Keep pushing,” Max Pace urged. About a third of the people either hung up or refused to believe Clay was serious about what he was saying.

He, Paulette, and Rodney divided their lists between black and white prospective clients. Evidently blacks were not as suspicious as whites because they were easier to persuade to go see the doctor. Or perhaps they enjoyed the medical attention. Or maybe, as Paulette suggested more than once, she had the better gift of gab.

By the end of the week, Clay had signed up three clients who tested positive for abnormal cells. Rodney and Paulette, working as a team, had seven more under contract.

The Dyloft class action was ready for war.

17

The Paris adventure cost him $95,300, according to the numbers so carefully kept by Rex Crittle, a man who was becoming more and more familiar with almost all aspects of Clay’s life. Crittle was a CPA with a mid-sized accounting firm situated directly under the Carter suite. Not surprisingly, he too had been referred by Max Pace.

At least once a week, Clay walked down the back stairs or Crittle walked up them, and they spent a half an hour or so talking about Clay’s money and how to properly handle it. An accounting system for the law firm was basic and easily installed. Miss Glick made all the entries and simply ran them down to Crittle’s computers.

In Crittle’s opinion, such sudden wealth would almost certainly trigger an audit by the Internal Revenue Service. Notwithstanding Pace’s promises to the contrary, Clay agreed and insisted on perfect records with no gray areas when it came to write-offs and deductions. He had just earned more money than he’d ever dreamed of. No sense trying to beat the government out of some taxes. Pay them and sleep well.

“What’s this payment to East Media for half a million dollars?” Crittle asked.

“We’re doing some television ads for litigation. That’s the first installment.”

“Installment? How many more?” He peered over his reading glasses and gave Clay a look he’d seen before. It said, “Son, have you lost your mind?”