“What are you going to do if you lose this trial?” Clay fired back.

Mitchell took a step closer. “If we win here, Mr. Carter, you’ll have a helluva time finding some poor lawyer who wants your twenty-six thousand cases. They won’t be worth much.”

“And if you lose?” Clay asked.

Gibb took a step closer. “If we lose here, we’re coming straight to D.C. to defend your bogus class action. That is, if you’re not in jail.”

“Oh, I’ll be ready,” Clay said, laboring under the assault.

“Can you find the courthouse?” Gibb asked.

“I’ve already played golf with the Judge,” Clay said. “And I’m dating the court reporter.” Lies! But they stalled them for a second.

Mitchell caught himself, thrust out his right hand again, and said, “Oh well, just wanted to say hello.”

Clay shook it and said, “So nice to hear from Goffman. You’ve hardly acknowledged my lawsuit.” Gibb turned his back and walked away.

“Let’s finish this one,” Mitchell said. “Then we’ll talk.”

Clay was about to reenter the courtroom when a pushy reporter stepped in front of him. He was Derek somebody with Financial Weekly and wanted a quick word or two. His newspaper was a right-wing, trial lawyer-hating, tort-bashing, corporate mouthpiece, and Clay knew better than to give him even a “No comment” or a “Kiss off.” Derek’s name was vaguely familiar. Was he the reporter who’d written so many unkind things about Clay?

“Can I ask what you’re doing here?” Derek said.

“I guess you can.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you’re doing here.”

“And that is?”

“Enjoying the heat.”

“Is it true that you have twenty-five thousand Maxatil cases?” “No.” “How many?”

“Twenty-six thousand.”

“How much are they worth?”

“Somewhere between zero and a couple of billion.”

Unknown to Clay, the Judge had gagged the lawyers for both sides from then until the end of the trial. Since he was willing to talk, he attracted a crowd. He was surprised to see himself surrounded by reporters. He answered a few more questions without saying much at all.

The Arizona Ledger quoted him as claiming his cases could be worth $2 billion. It ran a photo of Clay outside the courtroom, microphones in his face, with the caption “King of Torts in Town.” A brief summary of Clay’s visit followed, along with a few paragraphs about the big trial itself. The reporter did not directly call him a greedy, opportunistic trial lawyer, but the implication was that he was a vulture, circling, hungry, waiting to attack Goffman’s carcass.

The courtroom was packed with potential jurors and spectators. Nine A.M. came and went with no sign of the lawyers or the Judge. They were in chambers, no doubt still arguing pretrial issues. Bailiffs and clerks busied themselves around the bench. A young man in a suit emerged from the back, passed through the bar, and headed down the center aisle. He abruptly stopped, looked directly at Clay, then leaned down and whispered, “Are you Mr. Carter?”

Taken aback, Clay nodded.

“The Judge would like to see you.”

The newspaper was in the middle of the Judge’s desk. Dale Mooneyham was in one corner of the large office. Roger Redding was leaning on a table by the window. The Judge was rocking in his swivel chair. None of the three were happy. Very awkward introductions were made. Mooneyham refused to step forward and shake Clay’s hand, preferring instead to offer a slight nod and a look that conveyed hatred.

“Are you aware of the gag order I’ve put in place, Mr. Carter?” asked the Judge.

“No sir.”

“Well, there is one.”

“I’m not one of the attorneys in this case,” Clay said.

“We work hard at having fair trials in Arizona, Mr. Carter. Both sides want a jury as uninformed and as impartial as possible. Now, thanks to you, the potential jurors know that there are at least twenty-six thousand similar cases out there.”

Clay was not about to appear weak or apologetic, not with Roger Redding watching every move.

“Maybe it was unavoidable,” Clay said. He would never try a case in front of this judge. No sense being intimidated.

“Why don’t you just leave the state of Arizona?” Mooneyham boomed from the corner.

“I really don’t have to,” Clay shot back.

“You want me to lose?”

And with that, Clay had heard enough. He wasn’t sure how his presence might harm Mooneyham’s case, but why run the risk? “Very well, Your Honor, I guess I’ll be seeing you.” “An excellent idea,” the Judge said. Clay looked at Roger Redding and said, “See you in D.C.” Roger smiled politely, but slowly shook his head no. Oscar agreed to remain in Flagstaff and monitor the trial. Clay hopped on the Gulfstream for a very somber ride home. Banished from Arizona.

37

In Reedsburg, the news that Hanna was laying off twelve hundred workers brought the town to a halt. The announcement came in a letter written by Marcus Hanna and given to all employees.

In fifty years, the company had been through only four layoffs. It had weathered cycles and slowdowns and had always worked hard to keep everyone on the payroll. Now that it was in bankruptcy, the rules were different. The company was under pressure to prove to the court and to its creditors that it had a viable financial future.

Events beyond the control of management were to blame. Flat sales were a factor, but nothing the company hadn’t seen many times before. The crushing blow was the failure to reach a settlement in the class-action lawsuit. The company had bargained in good faith, but an overzealous and greedy law firm in D.C. had made unreasonable demands.

Survival was at stake, and Marcus assured his people that the company was not going under. Drastic cost cutting would be required. A painful reduction in expenses for the next year would guarantee a profitable future.

To the twelve hundred getting pink slips, Marcus promised all the help the company could provide.

Unemployment benefits would last for a year. Obviously, Hanna would hire them back as soon as possible, but no promises were made. The layoffs might become permanent.

In the cafes and barbershops, in the hallways of the schools and the pews of the churches, in the bleachers at soccer and peewee football games, on the sidewalks around the town square, in the beer joints and pool halls, the town talked of nothing else. Every one of the eleven thousand residents knew someone who’d just lost his or her job at Hanna. The layoffs were the biggest disaster in the quiet history of Reedsburg. Though the town was tucked away in the Alleghenies, word got out.

The reporter for the Baltimore Press who had written three articles about the Howard County class action was still watching. He was monitoring the bankruptcy filing. He was still chatting with the homeowners as their bricks fell off. News of the layoffs prompted him to go to Reedsburg. He went to the cafes and pool halls and soccer games.

The first of his two stories was as long as a short novel. An author bent on deliberate slander could not have been crueler. All of Reeds-burg’s misery could have easily been avoided if the class-action lawyer, J. Clay Carter II of D.C., had not been strident in his quest for large fees.

Since Clay did not read the Baltimore Press, and in fact he was dodging most papers and magazines, he might have avoided the news from Reedsburg, at least for a while. But the still-unknown editor(s) of the unauthorized and unwelcome newsletter faxed it over. The latest copy of “The King of Shorts,” obviously thrown together in a hurry, ran the Press story.

Clay read it and wanted to sue the newspaper.

However, he would soon forget about the Baltimore Press because a larger nightmare was looming. A week earlier, a reporter from Newsweek had called and, as usual, been stiff-armed by Miss Glick. Every lawyer dreams of national exposure, but only if it’s the high-profile case or billion-dollar verdict. Clay suspected this was neither, and he was right. Newsweek was not really interested in Clay Carter, but rather, his nemesis.