The third cell phone number found Pace at some undisclosed location. The man with no home had been in D.C. less and less in recent weeks. Of course he was off putting out another fire, nixing another round of nasty litigation for another wayward client, though he didn't admit this. Didn't have to. Clay knew him well enough by now to know that he was a fireman in demand. There was no shortage of bad products out there.
Clay was surprised at how comforting it was to hear Pace's voice. He explained that he was in New York, whom he was with, and why he was there. Pace's first word sealed the deal. "Brilliant," he said. "Just brilliant."
"You know him?"
"Everybody in this business knows Patton French," Pace said. "I've never had to deal with him, but he's a legend."
Clay gave the terms of the offer from French. Pace quickly caught up and then began thinking ahead. "If you refile in Biloxi, Mississippi, Ackerman's stock will take another hit," he said. "They're under tremendous pressure right now - pressure from their banks and their shareholders. This is brilliant, Clay. Do it!"
"Okay. Done."
"And watch the New York Times in the morning. Big story about Dyloft. The first medical report is out. It's devastating."
"Great."
He got a beer from the mini-bar - $8.00 but who cared - and for a long time sat in front of the window and watched the frenzy on Fifth Avenue. It was not entirely comforting to be forced to rely on Max Pace for advice, but there was simply no one else to turn to. No one, not even his father, had ever been presented with such a choice: "Let's move your five thousand cases over here and put them together with my five thousand cases, and we'll do not two but one class action, and I'll plunk down a million or so for the medical screenings while you double your advertising plan, and we'll rake forty percent off the top, then expenses, and make us a fortune. Whatta you say, Clay?"
In the past month he'd made more money than he'd ever dreamed of earning. Now, as things spun out of control, he felt as if he was spending it even faster. Be bold, he kept telling himself, this is a rare opportunity. Be bold, strike fast, take chances, roll the dice, and you could get filthy rich. Another voice kept urging him to slow down, don't blow the money, bury it and have it forever.
He had moved $1 million to an account off-shore, not to hide but to protect. He would never touch it, not under any circumstances. If he made bad choices and gambled it all away, he'd still have money for the beach.
He would sneak out of town like his father and never come back.
The million dollars in the secret account was his compromise.
He tried calling his office but all lines were busy, a good sign. He got Jonah on his cell phone, sitting at his desk. "It's crazy as hell," Jonah said, very fatigued. "Total chaos."
"Good."
"Why don't you get back here and help!"
"Tomorrow."
At seven thirty-two, Clay turned on the television and found his ad on a cable channel. Dyloft sounded even more ominous in New York.
Dinner was at Montrachet, not for the food, which was very good, but for the wine list, which was thicker than any other in New York. French wanted to taste several red burgundies with his veal. Five bottles were brought to the table, with a different glass for each wine. There was little room for the bread and butter.
The sommelier and Patton lapsed into another language when discussing what was in each bottle. Clay was bored with the entire process. A beer and a burger would've been preferable, though he could see his tastes changing dramatically in the near future.
When the wines had been opened and were breathing, French said, "I called my office. That lawyer in Miami is already on the air with Dyloft ads. He's set up two screening clinics and is running them through like cattle.
Name's Carlos Hernandez, and he's very, very good."
"My people can't answer all the calls," Clay said.
"Are we in this together?" French said.
"Let's go over the deal."
At which French whipped out a folded document. "Here's the deal memo," he said, handing it over while he went for the first bottle. "It summarizes what we've discussed so far."
Clay read it carefully and signed at the bottom. French, between sips, signed as well, and the partnership was born.
"Let's file the class action in Biloxi tomorrow," French said. "I'll do it when I get home. I've got two lawyers working on it right now. As soon as it's filed, you can dismiss yours in D.C. I know the in-house counsel for Ackerman Labs. I think I can talk to him. If the company will negotiate directly with us, and bypass their outside counsel, then they can save a bloody fortune and give it to us. And it will greatly expedite matters. If their outside lawyers take charge of the negotiations, it could cost us half a year in wasted time."
"About a hundred million, right?"
"Something like that. That could be our money." A phone rang somewhere in a pocket and French whipped it out with his left hand while holding a wineglass with his right. "Excuse me," he said to Clay.
It was a Dyloft conversation with another lawyer, somebody in Texas, obviously an old friend, one who could talk faster than Patton French. The banter was polite, but French was cautious. When he slapped the phone shut he said, "Dammit!"
"Some competition?"
"Serious competition. Name's Vic Brennan, big lawyer in Houston, very smart and aggressive. He's onto Dyloft, wants to know the game plan."
"He got nothing from you."
"He knows. He's unleashing some ads tomorrow - radio, television, newspaper. He'll pick up several thousand cases." For a moment, he consoled himself with a sip of wine, one that made him smile. "The race is on, Clay. We have to get those cases."
"It's about to get crazier," Clay said.
French had a mouthful of Pinot Noir and couldn't speak. "What?" his face said.
"Tomorrow morning, big story in the New York Times. The first bad report on Dyloft, according to my sources."
It was the wrong thing to say, as far as dinner was concerned. French forgot about his veal, which was still in the kitchen. And he forgot about the expensive wines covering his table, though he managed to consume them over the next three hours. But what mass tort lawyer could concentrate on food and wine when the New York Times was just hours away from exposing his next defendant and its dangerous drug?
The phone was ringing and it was still dark outside. The clock, when he could finally focus on it, gave the time as five forty-five. "Get up!" French growled at him. "And open the door." By the time he unlocked it, French was pushing it open and marching past with newspapers and a cup of coffee. "Unbelievable!" he said, flinging a copy of the Times on Clay's bed.
"You can't sleep all day, son. Read this!" He was dressed in hotel garb, the complimentary terry-cloth robe and white shower shoes.
"It's not six yet."
"I haven't slept past five in thirty years. There are too many lawsuits out there."
Clay wore nothing but his boxer shorts. French gulped coffee and read the story again, peering down his flat nose through reading glasses perched on the tip.
No sign of a hangover. Clay had gotten bored with the wines, which all tasted the same to him anyway, and finished the night with bottled water. French had battled on, determined to declare a winner among the five burgundies, though he was so sidetracked with Dyloft his heart wasn't in it.
The Atlantic Journal of Medicine was reporting that dylofedamint, known as Dyloft, had been linked to bladder tumors in about 6 percent of those who had taken it for a year.
"Up from five percent," Clay said as he read.
"Isn't that wonderful?" French said.
"Not if you're in the six percent."
"I'm not."
Some doctors were already pulling the drug. Ackerman Labs offered a rather weak denial, shifting blame, as always, to greedy trial lawyers, though the company appeared to be hunkering down. No comment from the FDA. A doctor in Chicago ran on for half a column about how great the drug was, how happy his patients were with it. The good news, if it could be called that, was that the tumors did not appear to be malignant, so far anyway. As Clay read the story, he got the feeling that Max Pace had seen it a month ago.
There was only one paragraph about the class action filed in D.C. on Monday, and no mention of the young lawyer who'd filed it.
Ackerman's stock had tumbled from $42.50 Monday morning to $32.50 at the close on Wednesday.
"Should've shorted the damned thing," French mumbled. Clay bit his tongue and kept a secret, one of the few he'd held on to in the past twenty-four hours.
"We can read it again on the plane," French said. "Let's get out of here."
The stock was at $28 by the time Clay walked into his office and tried to say hello to his weary staff. He went online to a Web site with the latest market movements and checked it every fifteen minutes, counting his gains. Burning money on one front, it was comforting to see some profits on the other.
Jonah was the first to stop by. "We were here until midnight last night," he said. "It's crazy."
"It's about to get crazier. We're doubling the TV ads."
"We can't keep up now."
"Hire some temporary paralegals."
"We need computer people, at least two. We can't add the data fast enough."
"Can you find them?"
"Maybe some temps. I know one guy, maybe two, who might be able to come in at night and play catchup."
"Get them."
Jonah started to leave, then turned around and closed the door behind him. "Clay, look, it's just me and you, right?"
Clay looked around the office and saw no one else. "What is it?"
"Well, you're a smart guy and all. But do you know what you're doing here? I mean, you're burning money faster than it's ever been burned. What if something goes wrong?"
"You're worried?"
"We're all a little worried, okay? This firm is off to a great start. We want to stay and have fun and make money and all that. But what if you're wrong and you go belly-up? It's a fair question."
Clay walked around to the edge of his desk and sat on the corner. "I'll be very honest with you. I think I know what I'm doing, but since I've never done it before, I can't be certain. It's one huge gamble. If I win, then we all make some serious money. If I lose, then we're still in business. We just won't be rich."
"If you get the chance, tell the others, okay?"
"I will."
Lunch was a ten-minute sandwich break in the conference room. Jonah had the latest numbers: For the first three days, the hot line had fielded seventy-one hundred calls and the Web site had averaged eight thousand inquiries per day. Information packets and contracts for legal services had been mailed as quickly as possible, though they were falling behind. Clay authorized Jonah to hire two part-time computer assistants. Paulette was given the task of finding three or four additional paralegals to work in the Sweatshop. And Miss Glick was directed to hire as many temporary clerks as necessary to handle the client correspondence.
Clay described his meeting with Patton French and explained their new legal strategy. He showed them copies of the article in the Times; they'd been too busy to notice.
"The race is on, folks," he said, trying his best to motivate a weary bunch. "The sharks are coming after our clients."
"We are the sharks," Paulette said.
Patton French called late in the afternoon and reported that the class action had been amended to add Mississippi plaintiffs and filed in state court in Biloxi. "We got it right where we want it, pal," he said.
"I'll dismiss here tomorrow," Clay said, hoping he was not giving away his lawsuit.
"You gonna tip off the press?"
"I wasn't planning on it," Clay said. He had no idea how one went about tipping off the press.
"Let me handle it."
Ackerman Labs closed the day at $26.25, a paper profit of $1,625,000, if Clay bought now and covered his short sale. He decided to wait. The news of the Biloxi filing would hit in the morning, and it would do nothing but hurt the stock.
At midnight, he was sitting at his desk chatting with a gentleman in Seattle who had taken Dyloft for almost a year and was now horrified that he probably had tumors. Clay advised him to get to the doctor as soon as possible for the urinalysis. He gave him the Web site and promised to mail out an information packet first thing tomorrow. When they hung up, the man was on the verge of tears.