“Why am I the lucky guy?”

“Timing, my friend. If my client knows exactly when you file the lawsuit, then they can react to the market.” “Where do I find fifty clients?” Clay asked. Max thumped another file. “We know of at least a thousand. Names, addresses, all right here.” “You mentioned a warehouse full of paralegals?” “Half a dozen. It’ll take that many to answer the phones and keep the files organized. You could end up with five thousand individual clients.” “Television ads?” “Yep, I’ve got the name of a company that can put the ad together in less than three days. Nothing fancy—a voice-over, images of pills dropping onto a table, the potential evils of Dyloft, fifteen seconds of terror designed to make people call the Law Offices of Clay Carter II. These ads work, believe me. Run them in all major markets for a week and you’ll have more clients than you can count.”

“How much will it cost?”

“Couple of million, but you can afford it.”

It was Clay’s turn to pace around the room and let the blood circulate. He’d seen some ads for diet pills that had gone bad, ads in which unseen lawyers were trying to frighten folks into dialing a toll-free number. Surely, he wasn’t about to sink that low.

But thirty-three million dollars in fees! He was still numb from the first fortune.

“What’s the timetable?”

Pace had a list of the first things to do. “You’ll have to sign up the clients, which will take two weeks max. Three days to finish the ad. A few days to buy the television time. You’ll need to hire paralegals and put them in some rented space out in the suburbs; it’s too expensive here. The lawsuit has to be prepared. You have a good staff. You should be able to get it done in less than thirty days.”

“I’m taking the firm to Paris for a week, but we’ll get it done.”

“My client wants the lawsuit filed in less than a month. July the second, to be exact.”

Clay returned to the table and stared at Pace. “I’ve never handled a lawsuit like this,” he said.

Pace pulled something out of his file. “Are you busy this weekend?” he asked, looking at a brochure.

“Not really.”

“Been to New Orleans lately?”

“About ten years ago.”

“Ever heard of the Circle of Barristers?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s an old group with a new life—a bunch of trial lawyers who specialize in mass torts. They get together twice a year and talk about the latest trends in litigation. It would be a productive weekend.” He slid the brochure across to Clay who picked it up. On the cover was a color photo of the Royal Sonesta Hotel in the French Quarter.

New Orleans was warm and humid as always, especially in the Quarter.

He was alone, and that was fine. Even if he and Rebecca were still together she would not have made the trip. She would’ve been too busy at work, with shopping to do on the weekend with her mother. The usual routine. He had thought about inviting Jonah, but that relationship was strained at the moment. Clay had moved out of their cramped apartment and into the comfort of Georgetown without offering to take Jonah with him, an affront, but one that Clay had anticipated and was prepared to deal with. The last thing he wanted in his new town house was a wild roommate coming and going at all hours with whatever stray cat he could pick up.

The money was beginning to isolate him. Old friends he once called were now being ignored because he didn’t want all the questions. Old places were no longer frequented because he could afford something better. In less than a month, he had changed jobs, homes, cars, banks, wardrobes, eating places, gyms, and he was most definitely in the process of changing girlfriends, though no substitute was on the horizon. They had not spoken in twenty-eight days. He’d been under the assumption that he would call her on the thirtieth day, as promised, but so much had changed since then.

By the time Clay entered the lobby of the Royal Sonesta his shirt was wet and clinging to his back. The registration fee was $5,000, an outrageous amount for a few days of fraternizing with a bunch of lawyers. The fee said to the legal world that not everyone was invited, only the rich who were serious about their mass torts. His room was another $450 & night, and he paid for it with an unused platinum credit card.

Various seminars were under way. He drifted through a discussion on toxic torts, led by two lawyers who’d sued a chemical company for polluting drinking water that might or might not have caused cancer, but the company paid a half a billion anyway and the two lawyers got rich. Next door a lawyer Clay had seen on television was in full throttle on how to handle the media, but he had few listeners. In fact, most of the seminars were lightly attended. But it was Friday afternoon and the heavyweights arrived on Saturday.

Clay eventually found the crowd in the small exhibition hall where an aircraft company was showing a video on its upcoming luxury jet, the fanciest of its generation. The show was on a wide screen in one corner of the hall, and lawyers were packed together, all silent, all gawking at this latest miracle of aviation. Range of four thousand miles—“Coast to coast, or New York to Paris, nonstop of course.” It burned less fuel than the other four jets Clay had never heard of, and went faster too. The interior was roomy with seats and sofas everywhere, even a very comely flight attendant in a short skirt, holding a bottle of champagne and a bowl of cherries. The leather was a rich tan color. For pleasure or for work, because the Galaxy 9000 came with a cutting-edge phone system and a satellite receiver that allowed the busy lawyer to call anywhere in the world; and faxes and a copier, and, of course, instant Internet access. The video actually showed a group of harsh-looking lawyer types huddled around a small table, with their sleeves rolled up as if they were laboring over some settlement, while the comely blonde in the short skirt got ignored along with her champagne.

Clay inched closer into the crowd, feeling very much like a trespasser. Wisely, the video never gave the selling price of the Galaxy 9000. There were better deals, involving time-shares and trade-ins, and leasebacks, all of which could be explained by the sales reps who were standing nearby ready to do business. When the screen went blank, the lawyers all began talking at once, not about bad drugs and class-action suits, but about jets and how much pilots cost. The sales reps were surrounded by eager buyers. At one point, Clay overheard someone say, “A new one is in the thirty-five range.”

Surely it wasn’t thirty-five million.

Other exhibitors were offering all sorts of luxury items. A boat-builder had a group of serious lawyers interested in yachts. There was a specialist on Caribbean real estate. Another was peddling cattle ranches in Montana. An electronics booth with the latest absurdly expensive gadgets was particularly busy.

And the automobiles. One entire wall was lined with elaborate displays of expensive cars—a Mercedes-Benz convertible coupe, a limited edition Corvette, a maroon Bentley, which every respectable mass tort lawyer had to have. Porsche was unveiling its own SUV and a salesman was taking orders. The biggest gathering was gawking over a shiny royal blue Lamborghini. Its price tag was almost hidden, as if the manufacturer was afraid of it. Only $290,000, and a very limited supply. Several lawyers appeared ready to wrestle for the car.

In a quieter section of the hall, a tailor and his assistants were measuring a rather large lawyer for an Italian suit. A sign said they were from Milan, but Clay heard some very American English.

In law school, he had once attended a panel discussion on large settlements, and what lawyers should do to protect their unsophisticated clients from the temptations of instant riches. Several trial lawyers told horror stories of working families who had ruined their lives with their settlements, and the stories were fascinating studies in human behavior. At one point, a lawyer on the panel quipped, “Our clients spend their money almost as fast as we do.”