Oscar handled the front and Livan took care of the back. The motel’s only meeting room had a flimsy folding partition that the two of them had fought with to unwrinkle and pull across the room, dividing it roughly in half. When Nora entered the front at eight forty-five, Oscar glanced at his watch, then said, as pleasantly as possible, “Good morning, ma’am.” She was fifteen minutes early, but then they usually showed up before the starting time.

The “ma’am” was something he caught himself practicing as he drove around D.C. It was not a word he’d been raised with.

Money in the bank, he said to himself as he looked at Nora. At least three hundred pounds and probably pushing four hundred. Sad that he could guess their weight like a huckster at a carnival. Sad that he was actually doing it.

“You the lawyer?” MaryBeth asked, with great suspicion. Oscar had been through it a thousand times already.

“Yes ma’am, the doctor’s in the back. I have some paperwork for you.” He handed over a clipboard with questionnaires designed for the simplest of readers. “If you have any questions, just let me know.”

MaryBeth and Nora backed into folding chairs. Nora fell heavily into hers; she was already sweating. They were soon lost in the forms. All was quiet until the door opened again and another large woman peered in. She immediately locked on to Nora, who was staring back, a deer in headlights. Two fatties caught in their quest for damages.

“Come in,” Oscar said with a warm smile, very much the car salesman now. He coaxed her through the door, shoved the forms into her hands, and led her to the other side of the room. Between two hundred fifty and two hundred seventy-five pounds.

Each test cost $1,000. One out of ten would become a Skinny Ben client. The average case was worth between $150,000 and $200,000. And they were picking up the leftovers because 80 percent of the cases had already found their way into law offices around the country.

But the leftovers were still worth a fortune. Not Dyloft money, but millions anyway.

When the questions were answered, Nora managed to get to her feet. Oscar took the forms, reviewed them, made sure she’d actually taken Skinny Bens, then signed his name somewhere on the bottom. “Through that door, ma’am, and the doctor is waiting.”

Nora walked through a large slit in the partition; MaryBeth stayed behind where she commenced to chat up the lawyer.

Livan introduced himself to Nora, who understood nothing of what he said. Nor could he understand her either. He took her blood pressure, and shook his head with displeasure—180 over 140. Her pulse was a deadly 130 per minute. He pointed to a set of industrial meat scales, and she reluctantly stepped on—388 pounds.

Forty-four years old. In her condition, she would be lucky to see her fiftieth birthday.

He opened a side door and led her outside where a medical van was parked and waiting. “We do the test in here,” he said. The rear doors of the van were open; two sonographers were waiting, both in white jackets. They helped Nora into the van and arranged her on a bed.

“What’s that?” she asked, terrified, pointing at the nearest device.

“It’s an echocardiogram,” one said, in English she could understand.

“We scan your chest with this,” said the other, a woman, “and we take a digital picture of your heart. It’ll be over in ten minutes.”

“It’s painless,” added the other.

Nora closed her eyes and prayed that she would survive.

The Skinny Ben litigation was so lucrative because the evidence was so easy. Over time, the drug, which ultimately did little to help lose weight, weakened the aorta. And the damage was permanent. Aortic insufficiency, or mitral valve regurgitation, of at least 20 percent was an automatic lawsuit.

Dr. Livan read Nora’s printout while she was still in prayer, and gave a thumbs-up to the sonographers: 22 percent. He took it up front where Oscar was shuffling paperwork for a whole room full of prospects. Oscar returned with him to the back, where Nora was now seated, looking pale and gulping orange juice. He wanted to say, “Congratulations, Ms. Tackett, your aorta has been sufficiently damaged,” but the congratulations were only for the lawyers. MaryBeth was summoned and Oscar walked them through the litigation scenario, hitting only the high points.

The echocardiogram would be studied by a board-certified cardiologist whose report would be filed with the class-action administrator. The compensation scale had already been approved by the Judge.

“How much?” asked MaryBeth, who seemed more concerned about the money than her sister. Nora appeared to be praying again.

“Based on Nora’s age, somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand dollars,” Oscar said, omitting, for the moment, that 30 percent would go to the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II.

Nora, wide awake, said, “A hundred thousand dollars!”

“Yes ma’am.” Like a surgeon before a routine operation, Oscar had learned to lowball his chances of success. Keep their expectations low, that way the shock of the attorneys’ fees wouldn’t be so great.

Nora was thinking about a new double-wide trailer and a new satellite dish. MaryBeth was thinking about a truckload of Ultra Slim-Fast. The paperwork was completed and Oscar thanked them for coming.

“When do we get the money?” MaryBeth asked.

“We?” asked Nora.

“Within sixty days,” Oscar said, leading them out the side door.

Unfortunately, the next seventeen had insufficient aortic damage and Oscar was looking for a drink. But he hit paydirt with number nineteen, a young man who jolted the scales at five hundred fifteen pounds. His echocardiogram was beautiful—40 percent insufficiency. He’d taken Skinny Bens for two years. Because he was twenty-six years old, and, statistically at least, he would live for thirty-one more years with a bad heart, his case was worth at least $500,000.

Late in the afternoon there was an ugly incident. A hefty young lady became incensed when Dr. Livan informed her that her heart was fine. No damage whatsoever. But she’d heard around town that Nora Tackett was getting $100,000, heard it over at the beauty shop in fact, and, though she weighed less than Nora, she too had taken the pills and was entitled to the same settlement. “I really need the money,” she insisted.

“Sorry,” Dr. Livan kept saying.

Oscar was called for. The young lady became loud and vulgar, and to get her out of the motel he promised to have their cardiologist review her echocardiogram anyway. “We’ll do a second workup and have the Washington doctors review it,” he said, as if he knew what he was talking about. This settled her enough to move her along.

What am I doing here? Oscar kept asking himself. He doubted if anyone in Larkin had ever attended Yale, but he was frightened nonetheless. He’d be ruined if word got out. The money, just think of the money, he repeated over and over.

They tested forty-one Skinny Ben users in Larkin. Three made the cut. Oscar signed them up and left town with the bright prospect of about $200,000 in attorneys’ fees. Not a bad outing. He raced away in his BMW and drove straight to D.C. His next foray into the heartland would be a similar secret trip into West Virginia. He had a dozen planned for the next month.

Just make the money. It’s a racket. It has nothing to do with being a lawyer. Find ‘em, sign ‘em, settle ‘em, take the money and run.