During the paperwork, Ridley asked Clay, privately, if it might be wise to put the house in her name, for tax reasons. She knew as much about the French and American tax codes as he did about Georgian inheritance laws, if, in fact they had any. Hell no, he said to himself, but to her he said, firmly, “No, that won’t work, for tax reasons.”

She appeared to be wounded, but the pain passed quickly as he assumed ownership. Clay went to a bank in Gustavia, alone, wired the money from an offshore account. When he met with the property attorney, he did so without Ridley.

“I’d like to stay for a while,” she said as they spent another long afternoon on the porch. He was planning a departure the following morning, and he’d assumed she was leaving too. “I’d like to get this house in order,” she said. “Meet with the decorator. And just relax for a week or so.”

Why not? Clay thought. Now that I own the damned place, might as well use it.

He returned to D.C. by himself, and for the first time in several weeks enjoyed the solitude of his Georgetown home.

For several days Joel Hanna had considered a solo act—just him, all alone on one side of the table, facing a small army of lawyers and their assistants on the other side. He would present the company’s survival plan; he really needed no help in doing this since it was his brainchild.

But Babcock, the attorney for their insurance company, insisted on being present. His client was on the front line for $5 million, and if he wanted to be present, then Joel couldn’t stop him.

Together they walked into the building on Connecticut Avenue. The elevator stopped on the fourth floor and they entered the lush and impressive suite of the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II. The logo “JCC” was broadcast to the world in tall bronze letters hung on a wall that appeared to be cherry or maybe even mahogany. The furniture in the reception room was sleek and Italian. A comely young blonde behind a glass-and-chrome desk greeted them with an efficient smile and pointed to a room just down the hall. A lawyer named Wyatt met them at the door, escorted them in, handled the introductions to and from the gang on the other side, and while Joel and Babcock were unpacking their briefcases another very shapely young lady materialized from nowhere and took their coffee orders. She served them from a silver coffee service with the JCC logo engraved on the pot and also on the fine china cups. When everyone was set and things couldn’t be readier, Wyatt barked at an assistant, “Tell Clay we’re all here.”

An awkward minute passed as Mr. JCC kept everyone waiting. Finally, he entered in a rush, jacket off, talking to a secretary over his shoulder, a very busy man. He went straight to Joel Hanna and Babcock and introduced himself as if they were all there voluntarily and about to engage in the common good. Then he hustled around to the other side and assumed the king’s throne in the middle of his team, eight feet away.

Joel Hanna couldn’t help but think, “This guy made a hundred million bucks last year.”

Babcock had the same thought, but he added to it the gossip that the kid had never tried a civil lawsuit. He’d spent five years with the crackheads in criminal court, but he’d never asked a jury for a nickel. Through all the posturing, Babcock saw signs of nervousness.

“You said you had a plan,” Mr. JCC began. “Let’s hear it.”

The survival scheme was quite simple. The company was willing to admit, for purposes of this meeting only, that it had manufactured a bad batch of Portland masonry cement, and that because of this, X number of new homes in the Baltimore area would have to be re-bricked. A payment fund was needed to compensate the homeowner, while not choking the company to death. As simple as the plan was, it took Joel half an hour to present it.

Babcock spoke on behalf of the insurance company. He admitted there was $5 million in coverage, something he rarely disclosed this early in a lawsuit. His client and the Hanna company would participate in a pool.

Joel Hanna explained that his company was short on cash, but was willing to borrow heavily to compensate the victims. “This is our mistake, and we intend to correct it,” he said more than once.

“Do you have an accurate count of the number of homes here?” JCC asked, and every one of his minions wrote this down.

“Nine hundred and twenty-two,” Joel said. “We’ve gone to the wholesalers, then to the contractors, then to the masonry subs. I think that’s an accurate number, but it could be off by five percent.”

JCC was scribbling. When he stopped, he said, “So if we assume a cost of twenty-five thousand dollars to adequately compensate each client, we’re looking at about just over twenty-three million dollars.”

“We are quite certain that it will not cost twenty thousand to fix each house,” Joel said.

JCC was handed a document by an assistant. “We have statements from four masonry subs in the Howard County area. Each of the four has been on site to see the damage. Each has submitted an estimate. The lowest is eighteen-nine, the highest is twenty-one-five. The average of the four is twenty thousand bucks.”

“I’d like to see those estimates,” Joel said.

“Maybe later. Plus, there are other damages. These homeowners are entitled to compensation for their frustration, embarrassment, loss of enjoyment, and emotional distress. One of our clients is suffering from severe headaches over this. Another lost a profitable sale on his home because the bricks were falling off.”

“We have estimates in the twelve-thousand-dollar range,” Joel said.

“We’re not going to settle these cases for twelve thousand dollars,” JCC said, and every head shook on the other side.

Fifteen thousand dollars was a fair compromise and would get new bricks on every house. But such a settlement left only nine thousand dollars for the client after JCC lopped his one-third off the top. Ten thousand dollars would get the old bricks off, the new ones on the premises, but it wouldn’t pay the brickmasons to finish the job. Ten thousand dollars would only make matters worse—the home stripped to the Sheetrock, the front yard a muddy mess, flats of new bricks in the driveway but no one to lay them.

Nine hundred twenty-two cases, at $5,000 each—$4.6 million in fees. JCC did the math quickly, amazed at how adept he’d become at stringing together zeroes. Ninety percent would be his; he had to share some with a few lawyers who were latecomers to the action. Not a bad fee. It would cover the cost of the new villa on St. Barth, where Ridley was still hiding with no interest in coming home, and after taxes there would be little left.

At $15,000 per claim, Hanna could survive. Taking the $5 million from Babcock’s client, the company could add about $2 million in cash currently on hand, funds that were earmarked for plant and equipment. A pool of $15 million was needed to cover every potential claim. The remaining $8 million could be borrowed from banks in Pittsburgh. However, this information was kept between Hanna and Babcock. This was just the first meeting, not the time to play every card.

The issue would boil down to how much Mr. JCC wanted for his efforts. He could broker a fair settlement, perhaps reduce his percentage, still make several million, protect his clients, allow a fine old company to survive, and call it a victory.

Or, he could take the hard line and everybody would suffer.