“I don’t know. I never told him when I got it.”

“So this Max Pace character is the only person who can nail you.”

The history was pretty clear. Clay had prepared the Dyloft class action but was unwilling to file it unless Pace could produce enough evidence. They had argued several times. Pace walked in one day with two thick briefcases filled with papers and files and said, “There it is, and you didn’t get it from me.” He left immediately. Clay reviewed the materials, then asked a college friend to evaluate their reliability. The friend was a prominent doctor in Baltimore.

“Can this doctor be trusted?” Battle asked.

Before he could say anything, Battle helped him with the answer. “Here’s the bottom line, Clay. If the Feds don’t know you had this secret research when you sold the stock short, they can’t get you for insider trading. They have the records of the stock transactions, but those alone are not enough. They have to prove you had knowledge.”

“Should I talk to my friend in Baltimore?”

“No. If the Feds know about him, he might be wired. Then you go to prison for seven years instead of five.”

“Would you please stop saying that?”

“And if the Feds don’t know about him, then you might inadvertently lead them to him. They’re probably watching you. They might tap your phones. I’d ditch the research. Purge my files, just in case they walk in with a subpoena. And I’d also do a lot of praying that Max Pace is either dead or hiding in Europe.”

“Anything else?” Clay asked, ready to start praying.

“Go see Patton French, make sure the research cannot be traced to you. From the looks of things, this Dyloft litigation is just getting started.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

The return address was that of a prison. Though he had many former clients behind bars, Clay could not remember one named Paul Watson. He opened it and pulled out a one-page letter, very neat and prepared on a word processor. It read: Dear Mr. Carter: You may remember me as Tequila Watson. I’ve changed my name because the old one doesn’t fit anymore. I read the Bible every day and my favorite guy is the Apostle Paul, so I’ve borrowed his name. I got a writ-writer here to do it legally for me.

I need a favor. If you could somehow get word to Pumpkin’s family and tell them that I’m very sorry for what happened. I’ve prayed to God and he has forgiven me. I would feel so much better if Pumpkin’s family could do the same. I still can’t believe I killed him like that. It wasn’t me doing the shooting, but the devil, I guess. But I have no excuses.

I’m still clean. Lots of dope in prison, lots of bad stuff, but God gets me through every day.

It would be great if you could write me. I don’t get much mail. Sorry you had to stop being my lawyer. I thought you were a cool dude. Best wishes, Paul Watson Just hang on, Paul, Clay mumbled to himself. We might be cell mates at the rate I’m going. The phone startled him. It was Ridley, down in St. Barth but wanting to come home. Could Clay please send the jet tomorrow?

No problem, dear. It only costs $3,000 an hour to fly the damned thing. Four hours down, four hours back—$24,000 for the quick round-trip, but that was a drop in the bucket compared to what she was spending on the villa.

You live by the leak, you die by the leak. Clay had played the game a few times, giving reporters the juicy gossip off the record, then offering smug “No comments” that were printed a few lines down from the real dirt. It had been fun then; now it was painful. He couldn’t imagine who would want to embarrass him even further.

At least he had a little warning. A reporter from the Post had called Clay’s office, where he’d been directed to the Honorable Zack Battle. He found him and got the standard response. Zack called Clay with a report of the conversation.

It was in the Metro section, third page, and that was a pleasant surprise after months of front-page heroics, then scandals. Because there were so few facts the space had to be filled with something—a photo of Clay.

“According to unnamed sources...” Zack had several quotes, all of which made Clay sound even guiltier. As he read the story he remembered how often he’d seen Zack do the same routine—deny and deflect and promise a vigorous defense, always protecting some of the biggest crooks in town. The bigger the crook the faster he ran to the office of Zack Battle, and Clay thought, for the first time, that perhaps he’d hired the wrong lawyer.

He read it at home where he was, thankfully, alone because Ridley was spending a day or two at her new apartment, one Clay had signed the lease for. She wanted the freedom of living in two places, hers and his, and since her old flat was quite cramped Clay had agreed to put her up in nicer digs. Actually, her freedom required a third place—the villa in St. Barth, which she always referred to as “ours.”

Not that Ridley read newspapers anyway. In fact, she seemed to know little of Clay’s problems. Her increasing focus was on the spending of his money, with not much attention to how he made it. If she saw the story on page three, she didn’t mention it. Nor did he.

As another bad day wore on, Clay began to realize how few people seemed to acknowledge the story. One pal from law school called and tried to cheer him up, and that was it. He appreciated the call, but it did little to help. Where were his other friends?

Though he tried mightily not to do so, he couldn’t help but think of Rebecca and the Van Horns. No doubt they’d been green with envy and sick with regrets when the new King of Torts had been crowned, just weeks earlier, it seemed. What were they thinking now? He didn’t care, he told himself again, and again. But if he didn’t care, why couldn’t he purge them from his thoughts?

Paulette Tullos dropped in before noon and that raised his spirits. She looked great—the pounds were off, the wardrobe was expensive. She’d been bouncing around Europe for the past few months, waiting for her divorce to become final. The rumors about Clay were everywhere, and she was concerned about him. Over a long lunch, one she paid for, it slowly became apparent that she was also worried about herself. Her cut of the Dyloft loot had been slightly over $10 million, and she wanted to know if she had exposure. Clay assured her she had none. She had not been a partner in the firm during the settlement, just an associate. Clay’s name was on all the pleadings and documents.

“You were the smart one,” Clay said. “You took the money and ran.”

“I feel bad.”

“Don’t. The mistakes were made by me, not you.”

Though Dyloft would cost him dearly—at least twenty of his former clients had now joined the Warshaw class action—he was still banking heavily on Maxatil. With twenty-five thousand cases, the payday would be enormous. “The road’s kinda rocky right now, but things will improve greatly. Within a year, I’ll be mining gold again.”

“And the Feds?” she asked.

“They can’t touch me.”

She seemed to believe this and her relief was obvious. If, in fact, she did believe everything Clay was saying, she was the only one at the table who did so.

The third meeting would be the last, though neither Clay nor anyone on his side of the table realized it. Joel Hanna brought his cousin Marcus, the company’s CEO, with him, and left behind Babcock, their insurance counsel. As usual, the two faced a small army on the other side, with Mr. JCC sitting in the middle. The king.

After the customary warm-ups, Joel announced, “We have located an additional eighteen homes that should be added to the list. That makes a total of nine hundred and forty. We feel very confident that there will not be any more.”