He greeted them in shorts and bare feet. Wes Saulsberry and Damon Didier were already there, stiff drinks in hand. Carlos Hernandez from Miami was due at any moment. French gave them a quick tour, during which Clay counted at least eight people in perfect white sailor’s garb, all standing at the ready in case he needed something. The boat had five levels, six state rooms, cost $20 million, and on and on. Ridley ducked into a bedroom and began shucking clothes.

The boys met for drinks “on the porch,” as French described it—a small wooden deck on the top level. French was actually going to trial in two weeks, a rarity for him because corporate defendants normally just threw money at him in fear. He claimed to be looking forward to it, and over a round of vodkas bored them all with the details.

He froze in mid-sentence when he saw something below. On a lower deck, Ridley appeared, topless and, at first sight, bottomless as well. But there was a dental-floss bikini in the package, clinging somehow to the right spot. The three older men bolted upright and gasped for breath. “She’s European,” Clay explained as he waited for the first heart attack. “When she gets near the water, the clothes come off.”

“Then buy her a damned boat,” Saulsberry said.

“Better yet, she can have this one,” French said, trying to collect himself.

Ridley looked up, saw the commotion she was causing, then disappeared. No doubt she was followed by every waiter and staff person on board.

“Where was I?” French said, breathing again.

“You were finished with whatever story you were telling,” Didier said.

Another powerboat was coming near. It was Hernandez, with not one but two young ladies in tow. After they unloaded and French got them settled in, Carlos met the boys on the porch.

“Who are the girls?” Wes asked.

“My paralegals,” Carlos said.

“Just don’t make them partners,” French said. They talked about women for a few minutes. Evidently, all four had been through several wives. Maybe that was why they kept working so hard. Clay did none of the talking and all of the listening.

“What’s up with Maxatil?” Carlos asked. “I have a thousand cases and I’m not sure what to do with them.”

“You’re asking me what to do with your cases?” Clay said.

“How many do you have?” French asked. The mood had changed dramatically; things were serious now.

“Twenty thousand,” Clay said, fudging just a little. Truth was, he didn’t know how many cases were in the office. What was a little exaggerating among mass tort boys?

“I haven’t filed mine,” Carlos said. “Proving causation could be a nightmare.” Words that Clay had heard enough and did not want to hear again. For almost four months, he’d been waiting for another big name to dive into the Maxatil pit.

“I still don’t like it,” French said. “I was talking to Scotty Gaines yesterday in Dallas. He has two thousand cases, but isn’t sure what to do with them either.”

“It’s very difficult to prove causation based solely on a study,” Didier said in Clay’s direction, almost lecturing. “I don’t like it either.”

“The problem is that the diseases caused by Maxatil are caused by many other factors as well,” Carlos was saying. “I’ve had four experts study this drug. They all say that when a woman is taking Maxatil and gets breast cancer, it’s impossible to link the disease to the drug.”

“Anything from Goffman?” French asked. Clay, who was ready to jump overboard, took a long pull on a very strong drink and tried to appear as if he had the corporation dead in the crosshairs.

“Nothing,” he said. “Discovery is just getting started. I think we’re all waiting for Mooneyham.”

“I talked to him yesterday,” Saulsberry said. They might not like Maxatil, but they were certainly monitoring it. Clay had been a mass tort lawyer long enough to know that the greatest fear of all was missing the big one. And Dyloft had taught him that the biggest thrill was launching a surprise attack while everyone else was asleep.

He was not yet sure what Maxatil might teach him. These guys were nibbling around the edges, probing, hoping to learn something from the front lines. But since Goffman had so thoroughly stonewalled the lawsuit since the day he’d filed it, Clay had nothing to give them.

Saulsberry was saying, “I know Mooneyham very well. We tried some cases together years ago.”

“He’s a blowhard,” French said, as if the typical trial lawyer was tight-lipped and one with a big mouth was a disgrace to the profession.

“He is, but he’s very good. The old guy hasn’t lost in twenty years.”

“Twenty-one,” Clay said. “At least that’s what he told me.”

“Whatever,” Saulsberry said, brushing them aside because he had fresh news. “You’re right, Clay, everybody is watching Mooneyham. Even Goffman. The trial is set for sometime in September. They claim they want a trial. If Mooneyham can connect the dots and prove causation and liability, then there’s a good chance the company will set up a national compensation plan. But if the jury goes with Goffman, then the war is on because the company ain’t paying a dime to anybody.”

“This is all according to Mooneyham?” French asked.

“Yes.”

“He’s a blowhard.”

“No, I’ve heard it too,” Carlos said. “I have a source, and he said exactly what Wes is saying.”

“I’ve never heard of a defendant pushing for a trial,” French said.

“Goffman’s a tough bunch,” Didier added. “I sued them fifteen years ago. If you can prove liability, they’ll pay a fair settlement. But if you can’t, you’re screwed.”

Once again, Clay felt like going for a swim. Fortunately, Maxatil was instantly forgotten when the two Cuban paralegals pranced onto the deck below in very skimpy outfits.

“Paralegals, my ass,” French said, straining for a better view.

“Which one is yours?” Saulsberry asked, leaning out of his chair.

“Take your pick, boys,” Carlos said. “They’re professionals. I brought them as a gift. We’ll pass them around.”

And with that the windbags on the top deck were dead silent.

A storm arrived just before dawn and disrupted the quietness of the yacht. French, badly hung over and with a naked paralegal under his sheets, called the captain from his bed and ordered him to head for shore. Breakfast was postponed, not that anyone was hungry. Dinner had been a four-hour marathon, complete with courtroom war stories, dirty jokes, and the obligatory late-night bickering caused by too much alcohol. Clay and Ridley had retired early and double-latched their door.

Moored in Biloxi harbor, riding out the storm, the steering committee managed to review all the documents and memos it was supposed to review. There were directions to the class-action administrator, and dozens of signature blanks to be filled in. Clay was nauseous by the time they finished, and desperate to stand on solid ground.

Not lost in all the paperwork was the latest fee schedule. Clay, or more accurately, his law firm, would soon be receiving another $4 million. Exciting enough, but he wasn’t sure if he would realize it when the money arrived. It would make a nice dent in the overhead, but only a temporary one.

It would, however, get Rex Crittle off his back for a few weeks. Rex was pacing the halls like an expectant father, looking for fees.

Never again, he vowed to himself when he stepped off the yacht. Never would he allow himself to be penned up overnight with people he didn’t like. A limo took them to the airport. The Gulfstream took them to the Caribbean.