“Easy enough.”

“Of course it’s easy. And let’s say this lawyer somehow gets the right evidence. Maybe some documents that didn’t get shredded. More likely someone working for my client, a whistle-blower. Anyway, the trial plays beautifully for the family of the deceased. There could be a huge verdict. Worse yet, at least for my client, the negative publicity would be horrendous. The stock price could collapse. Imagine the worst, Clay, paint your own nightmare, and believe me, these guys see it too. They did something bad. They know it, and they want to correct it. But they’re also trying to limit their damages here.”

“Four million is a bargain.”

“It is, and it isn’t. Take Ramon Pumphrey. Age twenty-two, working part-time, earning six thousand dollars a year. With a normal life expectancy of fifty-three more years, and assuming annual earnings of twice the minimum wage, the economic value of his life, discounted in today’s dollars, is about a half a million dollars. That’s what he’s worth.”

“Punitive damages would be easy.”

“Depends. This case would be very hard to prove, Clay, because there’s no paperwork. Those files you snatched yesterday will reveal nothing. The counselors at D Camp and Clean Streets had no idea what kind of drugs they were dispensing. The FDA never heard of Tar-van. My client would spend a billion on lawyers and experts and whoever else they need to protect them. Litigation would be a war because my client is so guilty!”

“Six times four is twenty-four million.”

“Add ten for the lawyer.”

“Ten million?”

“Yes, that’s the deal, Clay. Ten million for you.”

“You must be kidding.”

“Dead serious. Thirty-four total. And I can write the checks right now.”

“I need to go for a walk.”

“How about lunch?”

“No, thanks.”

Drifting now, on foot in front of the White House. Lost for a moment in a pack of Dutch tourists taking pictures and waiting for the President to give them a wave, then a stroll through Lafayette Park where the homeless vanished during the day, then to a bench in Farragut Square where he ate a cold sandwich without tasting anything. All senses were dull, all thoughts were slow and confused. It was May but the air was not clear. The humidity did little to help him think.

He saw twelve black faces sitting in the box, angry folks who’d spent a week hearing the shocking history of Tarvan. He addressed them in his final summation: “They needed black lab rats, ladies and gentlemen, preferably Americans because this is where the money is. So they brought their miraculous Tarvan to our city.” The twelve faces hung on every word and nodded in agreement, anxious to retire and dispense justice.

What was the largest verdict in the history of the world? Did the Guinness Book keep tabs on such? Whatever it was, it would be his for the asking. “Just fill in the blank, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.”

The case would never go to trial; no jury would hear it. Whoever made Tarvan would spend a helluva lot more than thirty-four million to bury the truth. And they would hire all manner of thugs to break legs and steal documents and wire phones and burn offices, whatever it took to keep their secret away from those twelve angry faces.

He thought of Rebecca. What a different girl she would be wrapped in the luxury of his money. How quickly she would leave the worries of Capitol Hill and retire to a life of motherhood. She would marry him in three months, or as soon as Barb could get things planned.

He thought of the Van Horns, but, oddly, not as people he still knew. They were out of his life; he was trying to forget about them. He was free of those people, after four years of bondage. They would never again torment him.

He was about to be free of a lot of things.

An hour passed. He found himself at DuPont Circle, staring in the windows of the small shops facing Massachusetts Avenue; rare books, rare dishes, rare costumes; rare people everywhere. There was a mirror in one storefront, and he looked himself squarely in the eyes and wondered aloud if Max the fireman was real or a fraud or a ghost. He walked along the sidewalk, sick with the thought that a respected company could prey on the weakest people it could find, then seconds later thrilled with the prospect of more money than he ever dreamed of. He needed his father. Jarrett Carter would know exactly what to do.

Another hour passed. He was expected at the office, a weekly staff meeting of some variety. “Fire me,” he mumbled with a smile.

He browsed for a while in Kramerbooks, his favorite bookstore in D.C. Perhaps soon he could move from the paperback section to the hardbacks. He could fill his new walls with rows of books.

At exactly 3 P.M., on schedule, he walked into the rear of Kramer’s, into the cafe, and there was Max Pace, sitting alone, drinking lemonade, waiting. He was obviously pleased to see Clay again.

“Did you follow me?” Clay asked, sitting down and stuffing his hands in his pants pockets.

“Of course. Would you like something to drink?”

“No. What if I filed suit tomorrow, on behalf of the family of Ramon Pumphrey? That one case could be worth more than what you’re offering for all six.”

The question seemed to have been anticipated. Max had an answer ready. “You’d have a long list of problems. Let me give you the top three. First, you don’t know who to sue. You don’t know who made Tarvan, and there’s a chance no one will ever know. Second, you don’t have the money to fight with my client. It would take at least ten million dollars to mount a sustainable attack. Third, you’d lose the opportunity to represent all known plaintiffs. If you don’t say yes quickly, I’m prepared to go to the next lawyer on my list with the same offer. My goal is to have this wrapped up in thirty days.”

“I could go to a big tort firm.”

“Yes, and that would present more problems. First, you’d give away at least half of your fee. Second, it would take five years to reach an outcome, maybe longer. Third, the biggest tort firm in the country could easily lose this case. The truth here, Clay, may never be known.”

“It should be known.”

“Maybe, but I don’t care one way or the other. My job is to silence this thing; to adequately compensate the victims, then to bury it forever. Don’t be foolish, my friend.”

“We’re hardly friends.”

“True, but we’re making progress.”

“You have a list of lawyers?”

“Yes, I have two more names, both very similar to you.” “In other words, hungry.” “Yes, you’re hungry. But you’re also bright.” “So I’ve been told. And I have broad shoulders. The other two are here in the city?”

“Yes, but let’s not worry about them. Today is Thursday. I need an answer by Monday, at noon. Otherwise, I’ll go to the next guy.”

“Was Tarvan used in any other U.S. city?”

“No, just D.C.”

“And how many people were treated with it?”

“A hundred, give or take.”

Clay took a drink of the ice water a waiter had placed near him. “So there are a few more killers out there?” “Quite possibly. Needless to say, we’re waiting and watching with great anxiety.”

“Can’t you stop them?”

“Stop street killings in D.C.? No one could predict Tequila Watson would walk away from D Camp and within two hours kill a person. Nor Washad Porter. Tarvan gives no clue as to who might snap, nor when they might do so. There is some evidence that after ten days without the drug a person becomes harmless again. But it’s all speculative.”

“So the killings should stop in just a few days?”

“We’re counting on it. I’m hoping we can survive the weekend.”

“Your client should go to jail.”

“My client is a corporation.”

“Corporations can be held criminally responsible.”