THE FINAL TARVAN CLIENTS to sign the documents were the parents of a twenty-year-old Howard University coed who'd dropped out of school one week and been murdered the next. They lived in Warren-ton, Virginia, forty miles west of D.C. For an hour they had sat in Clay's office and held hands tightly, as if neither of them could function alone. They cried at times, pouring out their unspeakable grief. They were stoic at other times, so rigid and strong and seemingly unmoved by the money that Clay doubted they would accept the settlement.
But they did, though of all the clients he'd processed Clay was certain that the money would affect them the least. With time they might appreciate it; for now, they just wanted their daughter back.
Paulette and Miss Glick helped escort them out of the office and to the elevators, where everybody hugged everybody again. As the doors closed, the parents were fighting tears.
Clay's little team met in the conference room where they let the moment pass and were thankful that no more widows and grieving parents would visit them, at least not in the near future. Some very expensive champagne had been iced for the occasion, and Clay began pouring. Miss Glick declined because she drank nothing, but she was the only teetotaler in the firm. Paulette and Jonah seemed especially thirsty. Rodney preferred Budweiser, but he sipped along with the rest.
During the second bottle, Clay rose to speak. "I have some firm announcements," he said, tapping his glass. "First, the Tylenol cases are now complete. Congratulations and thanks to all of you." He'd used Tylenol as a code for Tarvan, a name they would never hear. Nor would they ever know the amount of his fees. Obviously, Clay was being paid a fortune, but they had no idea how much.
They applauded themselves. "Second, we begin the celebration tonight with dinner at Citronelle. Eight o'clock sharp. Could be a long evening because there is no work tomorrow. The office is closed."
More applause, more champagne. "Third, in two weeks we leave for Paris. All of us, plus one friend each, preferably a spouse if you have one. All expenses paid. First-class air, luxury hotel, the works. We'll be gone for a week. No exceptions. I'm the boss and I'm ordering all of you to Paris."
Miss Glick covered her mouth with both hands. They were all stunned, and Paulette spoke first, "Not Paris, Tennessee."
"No, dear, the real Paris."
"What if I bump into my husband over there?" she said with a half-smile, and laughter erupted around the table.
"You can go to Tennessee if you'd like," Clay said.
"No way, baby."
When she could finally speak, Miss Glick said, "I'll need a passport."
"The forms are on my desk. I'll see to it. It'll take less than a week. Anything else?"
There was talk about weather and food and what to wear. Jonah immediately began debating which girl to take. Paulette was the only one who'd been to Paris, on her honeymoon, a brief tryst that ended badly when the Greek was called away on emergency business. She flew home alone, in coach though she'd gone over in first class. "Honey, they bring you champagne in first class," she explained to the rest. "And the seats are as big as sofas."
"I can bring anyone?" Jonah asked, obviously struggling with the decision.
"Let's limit it to anyone who doesn't have a spouse, okay?" Clay said.
"That narrows the field."
"Who will you take?" Paulette asked.
"Maybe no one," Clay said, and the room went quiet for a moment. They had whispered about Rebecca and the separation, with Jonah supplying most of the gossip. They wanted their boss happy, though they were not close enough to meddle.
"What's that tower over there?" Rodney asked.
"The Eiffel Tower," Paulette said. "You can go all the way to the top."
"Not me. It don't look safe."
"You're going to be a real traveler, I can tell." "How long are we there?" asked Miss Glick. "Seven nights," Clay said. "Seven nights in Paris." And
they all drifted away, swept along by the champagne. A month earlier they had been locked in the drudgery of the OPD. All but Jonah, who'd been selling computers part-time.
MAX PACE WANTED TO talk, and since the firm was closed Clay suggested they meet there, at noon, after the cobwebs had cleared.
Only a headache remained. "You look like hell," Pace
began pleasantly. "We celebrated." "What I have to discuss is very important. Are you up
to it?" "I can keep up with you. Fire away." Pace had a tall paper cup of coffee that he carried
around the room as he moved about. "The Tarvan mess is over," he said, for finality. It was over when he said it was over, and not before. "We settled the six cases. If anyone claiming to be related to our girl Bandy ever surfaces, then we'll expect you to deal with it. But I'm convinced she has no family."
"So am I." "You did good work, Clay." "I'm getting paid handsomely for it." "I'll transfer in the last installment today. All fifteen
million will be in your account. What's left of it."
"What do you expect me to do? Drive an old car, sleep in a rundown apartment, keep wearing cheap clothes? You said yourself that I had to spend some money to create the right impression."
"I'm kidding. And you're doing a great job of looking rich."
"Thank you."
"You're making the adjustment from poverty to wealth with remarkable ease."
"It's a talent."
"Just be careful. Don't create too much attention."
"Let's talk about the next case."
With that Pace took a seat and slid a file across. "The drug is Dyloft, manufactured by Ackerman Labs. It's a potent anti-inflammatory drug used by sufferers of acute arthritis. Dyloft is new and the doctors have gone crazy over it. It works wonders, patients love it. But it has two problems: First, it's made by a competitor of my client's; second, it's been linked to the creation of small tumors in the bladder. My client, same client as Tarvan, makes a similar drug that was popular until twelve months ago when Dyloft hit the market. The market is worth about three billion a year, give or take. Dyloft is already number two and will probably hit a billion this year. It's hard to tell because it's growing so fast. My client's drug is doing a billion and a half and losing ground fast. Dyloft is the rage and will quickly crush all competition. It's that good. A few months ago my client bought a small pharmaceutical company in Belgium.
This outfit once had a division that was later swallowed by Ackerman Labs. A few researchers got shoved out and shafted along the way. Some lab studies disappeared then surfaced where they didn't belong. My client has the witnesses and the documents to prove that Ackerman Labs has known of the potential problems for at least the past six months. You with me?"
"Yes. How many people have taken Dyloft?"
"It's really hard to tell because the number is growing so fast. Probably a million."
"What percentage get the tumors?"
"The research indicates about five percent, enough to kill the drug."
"How do you know whether a patient has the tumors?"
"A urinalysis."
"You want me to sue Ackerman Labs?"
"Hang on. The truth about Dyloft will be out very shortly. As of today, there has been no litigation, no claims, no damaging studies published in the journals. Our spies tell us Ackerman is busy counting its money and stashing it away to pay off the lawyers when the storm hits. Ackerman may also be trying to fix the drug, but that takes time and FDA approvals. They're in a real quandary because they need cash. They borrowed heavily to acquire other companies, most of which have not paid off. Their stock is selling for around forty-two bucks. A year ago it was at eighty."
"What will the news about Dyloft do to the company?"
"Hammer the stock, which is exactly what my client wants. If the litigation is handled right, and I'm assuming you and I can do it properly, the news will murder Ackerman Labs. And since we have the inside proof that Dyloft is bad, the company will have no choice but to settle. They can't risk a trial, not with such a dangerous product."
"What's the downside?"
"Ninety-five percent of the tumors are benign, and very small. There's no real damage to the bladder."
"So the litigation is used to shock the market?"
"Yes, and, of course, to compensate the victims. I don't want tumors in my bladder, benign or malignant. Most jurors would feel the same way. Here's the scenario: You put together a group of fifty or so plaintiffs, and file a big lawsuit on behalf of all Dyloft patients. At precisely the same time, you launch a series of television ads soliciting more cases. You hit fast and hard, and you'll get thousands of cases. The ads run coast to coast— quickie ads that'll scare folks and make them dial your toll-free number right here in D.C., where you have a warehouse full of paralegals answering the phones and doing the gr............