Throughout the long night, Clay drowned in self-pity—his badly bruised ego; the utter humiliation among peers, friends, and employees; the delight of his enemies; the dread of tomorrow and the public flogging he would take in the press, with no one to defend him.

At times he was afraid. Could he really lose everything? Was this the beginning of the end? The trial would have enormous jury appeal—for the other side! And how many potential plaintiffs were out there? Each case was worth millions.

Nonsense. With twenty-five thousand Maxatil cases waiting in the wings he could withstand anything.

But all thoughts eventually came back to Mr. Worley, a client who had not been protected by his lawyer. The sense of guilt was so heavy that he felt like calling the man and apologizing. Maybe he would write him a letter. He vividly remembered reading the two he’d received from his former client. He and Jonah had had a good laugh over them.

Shortly after 4 A.M., Clay made the first pot of coffee. At five, he went online and read the Post. No terrorist attacks in the past twenty-four hours. No serial murderers had struck. Congress had gone home. The President was on vacation. A slow news day, so why not put the smiling face of “The King of Torts” on the front page, bottom half?

was the clever headline. The first paragraph read: Washington attorney J. Clay Carter, the so-called newest King of Torts, received a taste of his own medicine yesterday when he was sued by some disgruntled clients. The lawsuit alleges that Carter, who earned a reported $110 million in fees last year, prematurely settled cases for small amounts when they were, in fact, worth millions.

The remaining eight paragraphs were no better. A severe case of diarrhea had hit during the night, and Clay raced to the bathroom.

His buddy at The Wall Street Journal weighed in with the heavy artillery. Front page, left side, same hideous sketch of Clay’s smug face.

was the headline. The tone of the article sounded as if Clay should be indicted and imprisoned rather than simply dethroned. Every business trade group in Washington had ready opinions on the subject. Their delight was thinly concealed. How ironic that they were so happy to see yet another lawsuit. The President of the National Trial Lawyers Academy had no comment.

No comment! From the one and only group that never waivered in its support of trial lawyers. The next paragraph explained why. Helen Warshaw was an active member of the New York Trial Lawyers Academy. In fact, her credentials were impressive. A board-certified trial advocate. Law Review editor at Columbia. She was thirty-eight years old, ran marathons for fun, and was described by a former opponent as “brilliant and tenacious.”

A lethal combination, Clay thought as he ran back to the bathroom.

Sitting on the toilet he realized that the lawyers would not take sides in this one. It was a family feud. He could expect no sympathy, no defenders.

An unnamed source put the number of plaintiffs at a dozen. Class certification was expected because a much larger group of plaintiffs was anticipated. “How large?” Clay asked himself as he made more coffee. “How many Worleys are out there?”

Mr. Carter, age thirty-two, was not available for comment. Patton French called the lawsuit “frivolous,” a description he borrowed, according to the article, from no less than eight companies he had sued in the past four years. He ventured further by saying the lawsuit ”... smacked of a conspiracy by the tort reforms proponents and their benefactors, the insurance industry.” Perhaps the reporter caught Patton after a few stout vodkas.

A decision had to be made. Because he had a legitimate illness he could hunker down at home and ride out the storm from there. Or he could step into the cruel world and face the music. He really wanted to take some pills and go back to bed and wake up in a week with the nightmare behind him. Better yet, hop on the plane and go see Ridley.

He was at the office by seven, with a game face on, high on coffee, bouncing around the halls bantering and laughing with the early shift, making lame but sporting jokes about other process servers on the way and reporters poking around and subpoenas flying here and there. It was a gutsy, splendid performance, one his firm needed and appreciated.

It continued until mid-morning when Miss Glick stopped it cold by stepping into his open office and saying, “Clay, those two FBI agents are back.”

“Wonderful!” he said, rubbing his hands together as if he might just whip both of them.

Spooner and Lohse appeared with tight smiles and no handshakes. Clay closed the door, gritted his teeth, and told himself to keep performing. But the fatigue hit hard. And the fear.

Lohse would talk this time while Spooner took notes. Evidently, Clay’s picture on the front page had reminded them that he was owed a second visit. The price of fame.

“Any sign of your buddy Pace?” Lohse began.

“No, not a peep.” And it was true. How badly he needed Pace’s counsel in this time of crisis.

“Are you sure?”

“Are you deaf?” Clay shot back. He was perfectly prepared to ask them to leave when the questions got sticky. They were just investigators, not prosecutors. “I said no.”

“We think he was in the city last week.”

“Good for you. I haven’t seen him.”

“You filed suit against Ackerman Labs on July second of last year, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you own any stock in the company before you filed the lawsuit?”

“No.”

“Did you sell the stock short, then buy it back at a lower price?”

Of course he had, at the suggestion of his good friend Pace. They knew the answer to the question. They had the data from the transactions, he was sure of that. Since their first visit, he had thoroughly researched securities fraud and insider trading. He was in a gray area, a very pale one, in his opinion, not a good place to be but far from guilty. In retrospect, he should not have dealt in the stock. He wished a thousand times he had not.

“Am I under investigation for something?” he asked. Spooner started nodding before Lohse said, “Yes.”

“Then this meeting is over. My attorney will be in touch with you.” Clay was on his feet, headed for the door.

For the next meeting of the Dyloft Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee, Defendant Patton French chose a hotel in downtown Atlanta, where he was participating in one of his many seminars on how to get rich stalking drug companies. It was an emergency meeting.

French, of course, had the Presidential Suite, a gaudy collection of wasted space on the hotel’s top floor, and there they met. It was an unusual meeting in that there was no comparing notes about the latest luxury car or ranch, none of that. Nor did any of the five care to boast about recent trial victories. Things were tense from the moment Clay entered the suite, and they never improved. The rich boys were scared.

And with good reason. Carlos Hernandez from Miami knew of seven of his Dyloft Group One plaintiffs who were now suffering from malignant kidney tumors. They had joined the class action and were now represented by Helen Warshaw. “They’re popping up everywhere,” he said, frantically. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. In fact, all five looked beaten and weary.

“She’s a ruthless bitch,” Wes Saulsberry said, and the others nodded in agreement. Evidently, the legend of Ms. Warshaw was widely known. Someone had forgotten to tell Clay. Wes had four former clients now suing him. Damon Didier had three. French had five.