The office dress code had rapidly evolved into an anything-goes style. The tone was set by the boss who leaned toward jeans and expensive T-shirts, with a sports coat nearby in case he went to lunch. He had designer suits for meetings and court appearances, but for the moment both of those were rare events since the firm had no clients and no cases. Everyone had upgraded their wardrobes, much to his satisfaction.

They met late Monday morning in the conference room—Paulette, Rodney, and a rather rough-looking Jonah. Though she had acquired considerable clout in the short history of the firm, Miss Glick was still just a secretary/receptionist.

“Folks, we have work to do,” Clay began the meeting. He introduced them to Dyloft, and relying on Pace’s concise summaries, gave a description and history of the drug. From memory, he gave the quick and dirty review of Ackerman Labs—sales, profits, cash, competitors, other legal problems. Then the good stuff—the disastrous side effects of Dyloft, the bladder tumors, and the company’s knowledge of its problems.

“As of today, no lawsuit has been filed. But we’re about to change that. On July the second, we start the war by filing a class action here in D.C. on behalf of all patients harmed by the drug. It will create chaos, and we’ll be right in the middle of it.”

“Do we have any of these clients?” Paulette asked.

“Not yet. But we have names and addresses. We start signing them up today. We’ll develop a plan for gathering clients, then you and Rodney will be in charge of implementing it.” Though he had reservations about television advertising, he had convinced himself flying home from New Orleans that there was no viable alternative. Once he filed suit and exposed the drug, those vultures he’d just met in the Circle of Barristers would swarm to find the clients. The only effective way to quickly reach large numbers of Dyloft patients was by television ads.

He explained this to his firm and said, “It’ll cost at least two million bucks.”

“This firm has two million bucks?” Jonah blurted, saying what everyone else was thinking.

“It does. We start working on the ads today.”

“You’re not doing the acting, are you, boss?” Jonah asked, almost pleading. “Please.” Like all cities, D.C. had been flooded with early-morning and late-night commercials pleading with the injured to call lawyer so-and-so who was ready to kick ass and charged nothing for the initial consultation. Often the lawyers themselves appeared in the ads, usually with embarrassing results.

Paulette also had a frightened look and was slightly shaking her head no.

“Of course not. It’ll be done by professionals.”

“How many clients are we looking at?” Rodney asked.

“Thousands. It’s hard to say.”

Rodney pointed at each of them, slowly counting to four. “According to my numbers,” he said, “there are four of us.”

“We’re adding more. Jonah is in charge of expansion. We’ll lease some space out in the suburbs and fill it with paralegals. They’ll work the phones and organize the files.”

“Where does one find paralegals?” Jonah asked.

“In the employment sections of the bar journals. Start working on the ads. And you’ve got a meeting this afternoon with a real estate agent out in Manassas. We’ll need about five thousand square feet, nothing fancy, but plenty of wiring for phones and a complete computer system, which, as we know, is your specialty. Lease it, wire it, staff it, then organize it. The sooner the better.”

“Yes sir.”

“How much is a Dyloft case worth?” Paulette asked.

“As much as Ackerman Labs will pay. It could range from as little as ten thousand to as much as fifty, depending on several factors, not the least of which is the extent of the damage to the bladder.”

Paulette was working with some numbers on a legal pad. “And how many cases might we get?”

“It’s impossible to say.”

“How about a guess?”

“I don’t know. Several thousand.”

“Okay, let’s say that’s three thousand cases. Three thousand cases times the minimum of ten thousand dollars comes to thirty million, right?” She said this slowly, scribbling the entire time.

“That’s right.”

“And how much are the attorneys’ fees?” she asked. The other three were watching Clay very closely.

“One third,” he said.

“That’s ten million in fees,” she said slowly. “All to this firm?”

“Yes. And we’re going to share the fees.”

The word share echoed around the room for a few seconds. Jonah and Rodney glanced at Paulette, as if to say, “Go ahead, finish it off.”

“Share, in what way?” she asked, very deliberately.

“Ten percent to each of you.”

“So in my hypothetical, my share of the fees would be one million?”

“That’s correct.”

“And, uh, same for me?” Rodney asked.

“Same for you. Same for Jonah. And, I must say, I think that’s on the low side.”

Low side or not, they absorbed the numbers in muted silence for what seemed like a very long time, each instinctively spending some of the money. For Rodney, it meant college for the kids. For Paulette, it meant a divorce from the Greek she’d seen once in the past year. For Jonah, it meant life on a sailboat.

“You’re serious, aren’t you, Clay?” Jonah asked.

“Dead serious. If we work our butts off for the next year, there’s a good chance we’ll have the option of an early retirement.”

“Who told you about this Dyloft?” Rodney asked.

“I can never answer that question, Rodney. Sorry. Just trust me.” And Clay hoped at that moment that his blind trust in Max Pace was not foolish.

“I almost forgot about Paris,” Paulette said.

“Don’t. We’ll be there next week.”

Jonah jumped to his feet and grabbed his legal pad. “What’s that Realtor’s name?” he asked.

On the third floor of his town house, Clay had put together a small office, not that he planned to do much work there but he needed a place for his papers. The desk was an old butcher block he’d found in an antique store in Fredericksburg, just down the road. It consumed one wall and was long enough for a phone, a fax, and a laptop.

It was there that he made his first tentative entry into the world of mass tort solicitation. He delayed the call until almost 9 P.M., an hour at which some folks went to bed, especially older ones and perhaps those afflicted with arthritis. A stiff drink for courage, and he punched the numbers.

The phone was answered on the other end by a woman, perhaps Mrs. Ted Worley of Upper Marlboro, Maryland. Clay introduced himself pleasantly, identified himself as a lawyer, as if they called all the time and there was nothing to be alarmed about, and asked to speak to Mr. Worley.

“He’s watching the Orioles,” she said. Evidently Ted didn’t take calls when the Orioles were playing.

“Yes—would it be possible to speak to him for a moment?”

“You say you’re a lawyer?”

“Yes ma’am, from right here in D.C.”

“What’s he done now?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all. I’d like to talk to him about his arthritis.” The first impulse to hang up and run came and went. Clay thanked God no one was watching or listening. Think of the money, he kept telling himself. Think of the fees.

“His arthritis? Thought you were a lawyer, not a doctor.”

“Yes ma’am, I’m a lawyer, and I have reason to believe he’s taking a dangerous drug for his arthritis. If you don’t mind, I just need him for a second.”

Voices in the background as she yelled something to Ted who yelled something back. Finally, he took the phone. “Who is this?” he demanded, and Clay quickly introduced himself.

“What’s the score?” Clay asked.

“Three-one Red Sox in the fifth. Do I know you?” Mr. Worley was seventy years old.

“No sir. I’m an attorney here in D.C., and I specialize in lawsuits involving defective drugs. I sue drug companies all the time when they put out harmful products.”