“I’m listening.”

“The company is in Reedsburg, Pennsylvania, and it makes the mortar used by bricklayers in new home construction. Pretty low-tech stuff, but a potential gold mine. Seems they’re having problems with their mortar. A bad batch. After about three years, it begins to crumble. When the mortar breaks down, the bricks start falling. It’s confined to the Baltimore area, probably about two thousand homes. And it’s just beginning to get noticed.”

“What are the damages?”

“It costs roughly fifteen thousand to fix each house.”

Fifteen thousand times two thousand houses. A one-third contract and the lawyers’ fees equaled $10 million. Clay was getting quick with his figures.

“The proof will be easy,” Saulsberry said. “The company knows it has exposure. Settlement should not be a problem.”

“I’d like to look at it.”

“I’ll send you the file, but you have to protect my confidence.”

“You get a piece?”

“No. It’s my payback for Dyloft. And, of course, if you get the chance to return the favor someday, then it will be appreciated. That’s how some of us work, Clay. The mass tort brotherhood is full of throat-cutters and egomaniacs, but a few of us try to take care of each other.”

Late in the afternoon, Ackerman Labs agreed to a minimum of $62,000 for each of the Group One Dyloft plaintiffs, those with benign tumors that could be removed with a fairly simple surgical procedure, the cost of which would also be borne by the company. Approximately forty thousand plaintiffs were in this class, and the money would be available immediately. Much of the haggling that followed involved the method to be used in qualifying for the settlement. A ferocious fight erupted when the issue of attorneys’ fees was thrown on the table. Like most of the other lawyers, Clay had a contingency contract giving him one third of any recovery, but in such settlements that percentage was normally reduced. A very complicated formula was used and argued about, with French being unduly aggressive. It was, after all, his money. Ackerman eventually agreed on the figure of 28 percent for Group One fees.

Group Two plaintiffs were those with malignant tumors, and since their treatments would take months or years, the settlement was left open. No cap was placed on these damages—evidence, according to Barry and Harry, that Philo Products was somewhere in the background, propping up Ackerman with some extra cash. The attorneys would get 25 percent in Group Two, though Clay had no idea why. French was crunching numbers too fast for anyone.

Group Three plaintiffs were those from Group Two who would die because of Dyloft. Since there had been no deaths so far, this class was also left open. The fees were capped at 22 percent.

They adjourned at seven with the plan to meet the next day to nail down the details for Groups Two and Three. On the elevator down, French handed him a printout. “Not a bad day’s work,” he said with a smile. It was a summary of Clay’s cases and anticipated fees, including a 7 percent add-on for his role on the Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee.

His expected gross fees from Group One alone were $106 million.

When he was finally alone he stood in front of the window in his room and gazed into the dusk settling over Central Park. Clearly, Tar-van had not braced him for the shock of instant riches. He was numb, speechless, frozen in the window forever as random thoughts raced in and out of his severely overloaded brain. He drank two straight whiskeys from the mini-bar with absolutely no effect.

Still at the window, he called Paulette, who snatched the phone after half a ring. “Talk to me,” she said when she recognized his voice.

“Round one is over,” he said.

“Don’t beat around the bush!”

“You just made ten million bucks,” he said, the words coming from his mouth but in a voice that belonged to someone else.

“Don’t lie to me, Clay.” Her words trailed off.

“It’s true. I’m not lying.”

There was a pause as she began to cry. He backpedaled and sat on the edge of the bed, and for a moment felt like a good cry himself. “Oh my God,” she managed to say twice.

“I’ll call you back in a few minutes,” Clay said.

Jonah was still at the office. He began yelling into the phone, then threw it down to go fetch Rodney. Clay heard them talking in the background. A door slammed. Rodney picked up the phone and said, “I’m listening.”

“Your share is ten million,” Clay said, for the third time, playing Santa Claus as he would never play it again.

“Mercy, mercy, mercy,” Rodney was saying. Jonah was screaming something in the background.

“Hard to believe,” Clay said. For a moment, he held the image of Rodney sitting at his old desk at OPD, files and papers everywhere, photos of his wife and kids pinned to the wall, a fine man working hard for very low pay.

What would he tell his wife when he called home in a few minutes?

Jonah picked up an extension and they chatted for a while about the settlement conference—who was there, where was it, what was it like? They did not want to let go, but Clay said he had promised to call Paulette again.

When he’d finished delivering the news, he sat on the bed for a long time, sad with the realization that there was no one else to call. He could see Rebecca, and he could suddenly hear her voice and feel her and touch her. They could buy a place in Tuscany or Maui or anywhere she wanted. They could live there quite happily with a dozen kids and no in-laws, with nannies and maids and cooks and maybe even a butler. He’d send her home twice a year on the jet so she could fight with her parents.

Or maybe the Van Horns wouldn’t be so awful with a hundred million or so in the family, just out of their reach but close enough to brag about.

He clenched his jaws and dialed her number. It was a Wednesday, a slow night at the country club. Surely she was at her apartment. After three rings she said, “Hello,” and the sound of her voice made him weak.

“Hey, it’s Clay,” he said, trying to sound casual. Not a word in six months, but the ice was immediately broken.

“Hello, stranger,” she said. Cordial.

“How are you?”

“Fine, busy as always. You?”

“About the same. I’m in New York, settling some cases.”

“I hear things are going well for you.”

An understatement. “Not bad. I can’t complain. How’s your job?”

“I have six more days.”

“You’re quitting?”

“Yes. There’s a wedding, you know.”

“So I heard. When is it?”

“December twentieth.”

“I haven’t received an invitation.”

“Well, I didn’t send you one. Didn’t think you’d want to come.” “Probably not. Are you sure you want to get married?” “Let’s talk about something else.” “There is nothing else, really.” “Are you dating anyone?” “Women are chasing me all over town. Where’d you meet this guy?” “And you’ve bought a place in Georgetown?” “That’s old news.” But he was delighted that she knew.

Perhaps she was curious about his new success. “This guy’s a worm,” he said. “Come on, Clay. Let’s keep it nice.” “He’s a worm and you know it, Rebecca.” “I’m hanging up now.” “Don’t marry him, Rebecca. There’s a rumor he’s gay.” “He’s a worm. He’s gay. What else? Unload everything, Clay, so you’ll feel better.”

“Don’t do it, Rebecca. Your parents will eat him alive. Plus your kids will look like him. A bunch of little worms.”

The line went dead.

He stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling, still hearing her voice, hit hard with the realization of just how much he missed her. Then the phone erupted and startled him. It was Patton French, in the lobby with a limo waiting. Dinner and wine for the next three hours. Someone had to do it.