There was an urgent Warshaw motion to take the depositions of several of the Dyloft plaintiffs. Urgency was required because they were dying, and their video depositions would be crucial to the trial, which was expected in about a year. To employ the usual defense tactics of stall, delay, postponement, and outright procrastination would have been enormously unfair to these plaintiffs. Clay agreed to the schedule of depositions suggested by Ms. Warshaw, though he had no plans to attend them.

Under pressure from Oscar, Clay finally agreed to lay off ten lawyers and most of the paralegals, secretaries, and clerks. He signed letters to every one of them—brief and very apologetic. He took full responsibility for the demise of his firm.

Frankly, there was no one else to blame.

A letter to the Maxatil clients was hammered out. In it, Clay recapped the Mooneyham trial in Phoenix. He held to the belief that the drug was dangerous, but proving causation would now be “very difficult, if not impossible.” The company was not willing to consider an out-of-court settlement, and, given Clay’s current medical problems, he was not in a position to prepare for an extended trial.

He hated to use his beating as an excuse, but Oscar prevailed. It sounded believable in the letter. At this low point in his career, he had to grab whatever advantage he could find.

He was therefore releasing each client, and doing so in sufficient time for each to hire another lawyer and pursue Goffman. He even wished them luck.

The letters would cause a storm of controversy. “We’ll handle it,” Oscar kept saying. “At least we’ll be rid of these people.”

Clay couldn’t help but think of Max Pace, his old pal who’d gotten him into the Maxatil business. Pace, one of at least five aliases, had been indicted for securities fraud, but had not been found. His indictment claimed that he used insider information to sell almost a million shares of Goffman before Clay filed suit. Later, he covered his sale and slipped out of the country with around $15 million. Run, Max, run. If he was caught and hauled back for a trial he might spill all their dirty secrets.

There were a hundred other details on Oscar’s checklist, but Clay grew weary.

“Am I playing nurse tonight?” Paulette whispered in the kitchen.

“No, Rebecca’s here.”

“You love trouble, don’t you?”

“She’s filing for divorce tomorrow. An uncontested divorce.”

“What about the bimbo?”

“She’s history if she ever comes back from St. Barth.”

For the next week, Clay never left his town house. Rebecca packed all of Ridley’s things into 30-gallon trash bags and stuffed them in the basement. She moved in some of her own stuff, though Clay warned her that he was about to lose the house. She cooked wonderful meals and nursed him whenever he needed it. They watched old movies until midnight, then slept late every morning. She drove him to see his doctor.

Ridley called every other day from the island. Clay did not tell her she’d lost her place; he preferred to do that in person, when and if she returned. The renovation was coming along nicely, though Clay had seriously curtailed the budget. She seemed oblivious to his financial problems.

The last lawyer to enter Clay’s life was Mark Munson, a bankruptcy expert who specialized in large, messy, individual crashes. Crittle had found him. After Clay retained him, Crittle showed him the books, the leases, the contracts, the lawsuits, the assets, and the liabilities. Everything. When Munson and Crittle came to the town house, Clay asked Rebecca to leave. He wanted to spare her the gruesome details.

In the seventeen months since he’d left OPD, Clay had earned $121 million in fees—$30 million had been paid to Rodney, Paulette, and Jonah as bonuses; $20 million had gone for office expenses and the Gulfstream; $16 million down the drain for advertising and testing for Dyloft, Maxatil, and Skinny Bens; $34 million for taxes, either paid or accrued; $4 million for the villa; $3 million for the sailboat, A million here and there—the town house, the “loan” to Max Pace, and the usual and expected extravagances of the newly rich.

Jarrett’s fancy new catamaran was an interesting issue. Clay had paid for it, but the Bahamian company that held its title was owned completely by his father. Munson thought the bankruptcy court might take one of two positions—either it was a gift, which would require Clay to pay gift taxes, or it was simply owned by someone else and thus not part of Clay’s estate. Either way, the boat remained the property of Jarrett Carter.

Clay had also earned $7.1 million trading in Ackerman stock, and though some of this was buried offshore it was about to be hauled back. “If you hide assets you go to jail,” Munson lectured, leaving little doubt that he did not tolerate such thinking.

The balance sheet showed a net worth of approximately $19 million, with few creditors. However, the contingent liabilities were catastrophic. Twenty-six former clients were now suing for the Dyloft fiasco. That number was expected to rise, and though it was impossible to throw darts at the value of each case, Clay’s legitimate exposure was significantly more than his net worth. The Hanna class-action plaintiffs were festering and getting organized. The Maxatil backlash would be nasty and prolonged. None of those expenses could be predicted either.

“Let the bankruptcy trustee deal with it,” Munson said. “You’ll walk away with the shirt on your back, but at least you won’t owe anything.”

“Gee thanks,” Clay said, still thinking about the sailboat. If they were successful in keeping it away from the bankruptcy, then Jarrett could sell it, buy something smaller, and Clay could have some cash to live on.

After two hours with Munson and Crittle, the kitchen table was covered with spreadsheets and printouts and discarded notes, a debris-strewn testament to the past seventeen months of his life. He was ashamed of his greed and embarrassed by his stupidity. It was sickening what the money had done to him.

The thought of leaving helped him survive each day.

Ridley called from St. Barth with the alarming news that a FOR SALE sign had appeared in front of “their” villa.

“That’s because it’s now for sale,” Clay said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Come home and I’ll explain it to you.”

“Is there trouble?”

“You might say that.”

After a long pause, she said, “I prefer to stay here.”

“I can’t make you come home, Ridley.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Fine. Stay in the villa until it sells. I don’t care.”

“How long will that be?”

He could see her doing everything imaginable to sabotage a potential sale. At the moment, Clay just didn’t care. “Maybe a month, maybe a year. I don’t know.”

“I’m staying,” she said.

“Fine.”

Rodney found his old friend sitting on the front steps of his picturesque town house, crutches by his side, a shawl over his shoulders to knock off the autumn chill. The wind was spinning leaves in circles along Dumbarton Street.

“Need some fresh air,” Clay said. “I’ve been locked in there for three weeks.”

“How are the bones?” Rodney asked, as he sat beside him and looked at the street.

“Healing nicely.”

Rodney had left the city and become a real suburbanite. Khakis and sneakers, a fancy SUV to haul kids around. “How’s your head?”

“No additional brain damage.”

“How’s your soul?”

“Tortured, to say the least. But I’ll survive.”

“Paulette says you’re leaving.”

“For a while, anyway. I’ll file for bankruptcy next week, and I will not be around here when it happens. Paulette has a flat in London that I can use for a few months. We’ll hide there.”

“You can’t avoid a bankruptcy?”