It was a puff piece for Helen Warshaw, two pages of glory that any lawyer would kill for. A striking photo had Ms. Warshaw in a courtroom somewhere, standing in front of an empty jury box, looking quite tenacious and brilliant, but also very believable. Clay had never seen her before, and he’d hoped she would somehow resemble a “ruthless bitch,” as Saulsberry had called her. She did not. She was very attractive—short, dark hair and sad brown eyes that would hold the attention of any jury. Clay stared at her and wished he had her case rather than his. Hopefully, they would never meet. And if so, never in a courtroom.

Ms. Warshaw was one of three partners in a New York firm that specialized in attorney malpractice, a rare but growing niche. Now she was going after some of the biggest and richest lawyers in the country, and she was not going to settle. “I’ve never seen a case with as much jury appeal,” she said, and Clay wanted to slit his wrists.

She had fifty Dyloft clients, all dying, all suing. The story gave the quick and dirty history of the class-action litigation.

Of the fifty, for some reason the reporter focused on Mr. Ted Worley, of Upper Marlboro, Maryland, and ran a photo of the poor guy sitting in his backyard with his wife behind him, their arms crossed, both faces sad and frowning. Mr. Worley, weak and trembling and angry, recounted his first contact with Clay Carter, a phone call from nowhere while he was trying to enjoy an Orioles game, the frightening news about Dyloft, the urinalysis, the visit from the young lawyer, the filing of the lawsuit. Everything. “I didn’t want to settle,” he said more than once.

For Newsweek Mr. Worley produced all of his paperwork—the medical records, the court filings, the insidious contract with Carter that gave the lawyer the authority to settle for any amount over $50,000. Everything, including copies of the two letters Mr. Worley had written to Mr. Carter in protest of the “sellout.” The lawyer did not answer the letters.

According to his doctors, Mr. Worley had less than six months to live. Slowly reading each awful word of the story, Clay felt as if he was responsible for the cancer.

Helen explained that the jury would hear from many of her clients by video, since they would not last until the trial. A rather cruel thing to say, Clay thought, but then everything in the story was wicked.

Mr. Carter declined to comment. For good measure, they threw in the White House photo of Clay and Ridley, and they couldn’t resist the tidbit that he had donated $250,000 to the Presidential Review.

“He’s gonna need friends like the President,” Helen Warshaw said, and Clay could almost feel the bullet between his eyes. He flung the magazine across his office. He wished he’d never been to the White House, never met the President, never written that damned check, never met Ted Worley, never met Max Pace, never thought about going to law school.

He called his pilots and told them to hustle to the airport. “Going where, sir?”

“I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Biloxi, Mississippi.”

“One person or two?”

“Just me.” He hadn’t seen Ridley in twenty-four hours and had no desire to take her with him. He needed time away from the city and anything that reminded him of it.

But two days on French’s yacht did little to help. Clay needed the company of another conspirator, but Patton was too preoccupied with other class actions. They ate and drank too much.

French had two associates in the courtroom in Phoenix and they were sending e-mails by the hour. He continued to discount Maxatil as a potential target, but he was still watching every move. It was his job, he said, since he was the biggest tort lawyer of them all. He had the experience, the money, the reputation. All mass tort, should, sooner or later, land on his desk.

Clay read the e-mails, and he talked to Mulrooney. Jury selection had taken one full day. Dale Mooneyham was now slowly laying out the plaintiff’s case against the drug. The government study was powerful evidence. The jury was keenly interested in it. “So far, so good,” Oscar said. “Mooneyham is quite the actor, but Roger has better courtroom skills.”

While French juggled three calls at once, with a crushing hangover, Clay sunned on the upper deck and tried to forget his problems. Late on the second afternoon, after a couple of vodkas on the deck, French asked, “How much cash you got left?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid to crunch the numbers.”

“Take a guess.”

“Twenty million, maybe.”

“And how much insurance?”

“Ten million. They canceled me, but they’re still on the line for Dyloft.”

French sucked on a lemon and said, “I’m not sure thirty million is enough for you.”

“Doesn’t appear to be sufficient, does it?”

“No. You have twenty-one claims now, and the number can only go up. We’ll be lucky if we can settle these damned things for three mil each.”

“How many do you have?”

“Nineteen, as of yesterday.”

“And how much cash do you have?”

“Two hundred million. I’ll be all right.”

Then why don’t you just loan me, say, fifty million?

Clay managed to be amused at the way they threw around the numbers. A steward brought more alcohol, which they needed.

“And the other guys?” Clay asked.

“Wes is fine. Carlos can survive if his number stays below thirty. Didier’s last two wives cleaned him out. He’s dead. He’ll be the first one to go bankrupt, which he’s done before.”

The first one? And who might be the second one? After a long silence, Clay asked, “What happens if Goffman wins in Flagstaff? I have all these cases.”

“You’re gonna be one sick puppy, that’s for damned sure. Happened to me ten years ago with a bunch of bad baby cases. I hustled around, signed ‘em up, sued too fast, then the wheels came off and there was no way to recover anything. My clients were expecting millions because they had these little deformed babies, you know, and so they were emotional as hell and impossible to deal with. Bunch of ‘em sued me, but I never paid. The lawyer can’t promise a result. Cost me a bunch of dough, though.”

“That’s not what I want to hear.”

“How much have you spent on Maxatil?”

“Eight million just in advertising.”

“I’d just sit on them for a while, see what Goffman does. I doubt they’ll offer anything. They’re a bunch of hardasses. With time, your clients will revolt and you can tell them to get lost.” A big drink of vodka. “But think positive. Mooneyham hasn’t lost in ages. A big verdict, and the whole world is different. You’re sitting on a gold mine, again.”

“Goffman told me they were coming straight to D.C. next.”

“They could be bluffing, depends on what happens in Flagstaff. If they lose big, then they have to think about settling. A split-decision—liability but small damages—and they might want to try another one. If they choose yours, then you can bring in a trial stud and whip their asses.”

“You wouldn’t advise me to try it myself?”

“No. You don’t have the experience. It takes years in the courtroom before you’re ready for the big leagues, Clay. Years and years.”

As fiery as he was about big lawsuits, it was obvious to Clay that Patton had no enthusiasm for the scenario he had just laid out. He was not volunteering to be the trial stud in the D.C. case. He was just going through the motions in an effort to comfort his young colleague.

Clay left late the next morning and flew to Pittsburgh, anywhere but D.C. En route, he talked to Oscar, and he read the e-mails and news reports of the trial in Flagstaff. The plaintiff, a sixty-six-year-old woman with breast cancer, had testified and presented her case beautifully. She was very sympathetic, and Mooneyham played her like a fiddle. Go get ‘em, ol’ boy, Clay kept mumbling to himself.