Clay was mightily relieved to have only one, but such relief was temporary. “Actually, you have seven,” French said, and handed over a printout with Clay’s name at the top and a list of ex-clients/now plaintiffs under it.

“I’m told by Wicks at Ackerman that we can expect the list to grow,” French said.

“What’s their mood?” Wes asked.

“Total shock. Their drug is killing people right and left. Philo wishes they’d never heard of Ackerman Labs.”

“I’m with them,” Didier said, shooting a nasty look at Clay, as if to say, “It’s all your fault.”

Clay looked back at the seven names on his list. Other than Ted Worley, he did not recognize any of them. Kansas, South Dakota, Maine, two from Oregon, Georgia, Maryland. How did he come to represent these people? A ridiculous way to practice law—suing and settling for people he’d never met! And now they were suing him!

“Is it safe to assume that the medical evidence is substantial here?” Wes was asking. “I mean, is there room to fight, to try and prove that this recurring cancer is not related to Dyloft. If so, it gets us off the hook, and Ackerman as well. I don’t like being in bed with clowns, but that’s where we are.”

“Nope! We’re screwed,” French said. At times he could be so blunt it was painful. No sense wasting time. “Wicks tells me that the drug is more dangerous than a bullet to the head. Their own research people are leaving because of this. Careers are being ruined. The company might not survive.”

“You mean Philo?”

“Yes, when Philo bought Ackerman they thought they had a handle on the Dyloft mess. It now looks as if Groups Two and Three will be much larger and much more expensive. They’re scrambling.”

“Aren’t we all?” Carlos mumbled, then he too looked at Clay as if a bullet to the head might be in order.

“If we are liable, then there’s no way we can defend these cases,” Wes said, stating the obvious.

“We have to negotiate,” Didier said. “We’re talking survival here.”

“How much is a case worth?” Clay asked, his voice still working.

“In front of a jury, two million to ten million, depending on the punitives,” French said.

“That’s low,” said Carlos.

“No jury will see my face in court,” Didier said. “Not with this set of facts.”

“The average plaintiff is sixty-eight and retired,” Wes said. “So, economically, the damages are not great when the plaintiff dies. Pain and suffering will up the tally. But in a vacuum, you could settle these cases for a million each.”

“This ain’t no vacuum,” Didier snapped.

“No kidding,” Wes snapped right back. “But throw in such beautiful defendants as a bunch of greedy mass tort lawyers, and the value goes through the roof.”

“I’d rather have the plaintiff’s side than mine,” Carlos said, rubbing his tired eyes.

Clay noticed that not a single drop of alcohol was being consumed; just coffee and water. He desperately wanted one of French’s vodka remedies.

“We’re probably going to lose our class action,” French said. “Everybody who’s still in is trying to get out. As you know, very few of the Group Two and Three plaintiffs have settled, and, for obvious reasons, they want no part of this lawsuit. I know of at least five groups of lawyers ready to ask the court to dissolve our class and kick us out. Can’t really blame them.”

“We can fight them,” Wes said. “We got fees out there. And we’re gonna need them.”

Nonetheless they were not in the mood to fight, at least not then. Regardless of how much money they claimed to have, each was worried, but at different levels. Clay did most of the listening, and he became intrigued by how the other four were reacting. Patton French probably had more money than anyone there, and he seemed confident he could withstand the financial pressures of the lawsuit. Same for Wes, who had earned $500 million from the tobacco scam. Carlos was cocky at times, but then he couldn’t stop fidgeting. It was the hard-faced Didier who was terrified.

They all had more money than Clay, and Clay had more Dyloft cases than any of them. He didn’t like the math.

He picked the number of $3 million as a possibility for settlement. If his list stopped with seven names, then he could handle a hit in the $20 million range. But if the list kept growing...

Clay brought up the topic of insurance, and was shocked to learn that none of the four had any. They had all been terminated years earlier. Very few carriers of legal malpractice would touch a mass tort lawyer. Dyloft was a perfect example of why not.

“Be thankful you’ve got the ten million,” Wes said. “That’s money that won’t come out of your pocket.”

The meeting was nothing more than a bitch-and-cry session. They wanted the company of each other’s misery, but only briefly. They agreed on a very general plan to meet with Ms. Warshaw at some undetermined point in the future and delicately explore the possibility of negotiation. She was making it well known that she did not want to settle. She wanted trials—big, tawdry, sensational spectacles in which the current and past Kings of Torts would be hauled in and stripped naked before the juries.

Clay killed an afternoon and night in Atlanta, where no one knew him.

During his years at OPD, Clay had conducted hundreds of initial interviews, almost all at the jail. They usually started slow, with the defendant, who was almost always black, uncertain about how much he should say to his white lawyer. The background information thawed things somewhat, but the facts and details and truth about the alleged crime were rarely given during the first meeting.

It was ironic that Clay, the white defendant now, was nervously walking into his own initial interview with his black defense lawyer. And at $750 an hour, Zack Battle had better be prepared to listen fast. No ducking and weaving and shadowboxing at that rate. Battle would get the truth, as fast as he could write it down.

But Battle wanted to gossip. He and Jarrett had been drinking buddies years earlier, long before Battle sobered up and became the biggest criminal lawyer in D.C. Oh, the stories he could tell about Jarrett Carter. Not at $750 an hour, Clay wanted to say. Turn the damned clock off and we’ll chat forever.

Battle’s office faced Lafayette Park, with the White House in the background. He and Jarrett got drunk one night and decided to drink some beer with the winos and homeless folks out in the park. Cops sneaked up on them, thought they were perverts out looking for action. Both got arrested and it took every favor in the bank to keep it out of the newspapers. Clay laughed because he was supposed to.

Battle gave up booze for pipe tobacco, and his cluttered and dirty office reeked of stale smoke. How is your father? he wanted to know. Clay, quickly, painted a generous and almost romantic picture of Jarrett sailing the world.

When they finally got around to it, Clay told the Dyloft story, beginning with Max Pace and ending with the FBI. He did not talk about Tarvan, but he would if it became necessary. Oddly, Battle took no notes. He just listened, frowning and smoking his pipe, gazing off occasionally in deep reflection, but never betraying what he thought.

“This stolen research that Max Pace had,” he said, then a pause, then a puff. “Did you have it in your possession when you sold the stock and filed suit?”

“Of course. I had to know that I could prove liability against Ackerman if we went to trial.”

“Then it’s insider trading. You’re guilty. Five years in the slammer. Tell me, though, how the Feds can prove it.”

When his heart began pumping again, Clay said, “Max Pace can tell them, I guess.”

“Who else has the research?”

“Patton French, maybe one or two of the other guys.”

“Does Patton French know that you had this information before you filed suit?”