BAD NEWS CONTINUED to follow the miracle drug Dyloft. Two more medical studies were published, one of which argued convincingly that Ackerman Labs cut corners on its research and pulled every string it had to get the drug approved. The FDA finally ordered Dyloft off the market.

The bad news was, of course, wonderful news to the lawyers, and the frenzy heated up as more and more latecomers piled on. Patients taking Dyloft received written warnings from Ackerman Labs and from their own doctors, and these dire messages were almost always followed by ominous solicitations from mass tort lawyers. Direct mail was extremely effective. Newspaper ads were used in every big market. And hot lines were all over the television. The threat of tumors growing wild prompted virtually all Dyloft users to contact a lawyer.

Patton French had never seen a mass tort class come together so beautifully. Because he and Clay won the race to the courthouse in Biloxi, their class had been certified first. All other Dyloft plaintiffs wanting in on a class action would be forced to join theirs, with the Plaintiffs' Steering Committee raking off an additional fee. French's friendly judge had already appointed the five-lawyer committee— French, Clay, Carlos Hernandez from Miami, and two other cronies from New Orleans. In theory, the committee would handle the large and complicated trial against Ackerman Labs. In reality, the five would shuffle paperwork and cover the administrative chore of keeping fifty thousand or so clients and their lawyers somewhat organized.

A Dyloft plaintiff could always "opt out" of the class, and take on Ackerman Labs alone in a separate trial. As lawyers around the country collected the cases and put together their coalitions, the inevitable conflicts arose. Some disapproved of the Biloxi class and wanted their own. Some despised Patton French. Some wanted a trial in their jurisdictions, with the chance of a huge verdict.

But French had been through the battles many times before. He lived on his Gulfstream, jetting from coast to coast, meeting the mass tort lawyers who were collecting cases by the hundreds, and somehow holding the fragile coalition together. The settlement would be bigger in Biloxi, he promised.

He talked every day to the in-house counsel at Ackerman Labs, an embattled old warrior who had tried to retire twice but the CEO wouldn't allow it. French's message was clear and simple—let's talk settlement now, without your outside lawyers, because you know you're not going to trial with this drug. Ackerman was beginning to listen.

In mid-August, French convened a summit of the Dyloft lawyers at his sprawling ranch near Ketchum, Idaho. He explained to Clay that his attendance was mandatory, as a member of the Plaintiffs' Steering Committee, and, just as important, the rest of the boys were quite anxious to meet the young upstart who broke the Dyloft case. "Plus, with these guys you can't miss a single meeting, else they'll stab you in the back."

"I'll be there," Clay said. "I'll send a jet," French offered. "No thanks. I'll get there." Clay chartered a Lear 35, a handsome little jet about

one-third the size of a Gulfstream 5, but since he was traveling alone it was quite adequate. He met the pilots in the private terminal at Reagan National, where he mixed and mingled with the other hotshots, all older than he, and tried desperately to act as if there was nothing special about hopping on board his own jet. Sure it was owned by a charter company, but for the next three days it was his.

Lifting off to the north, he stared down at the Potomac, then the Lincoln Memorial, and, quickly, all the landmarks of downtown. There was his office building, and in the distance, not too far away, was the Office of the Public Defender. What would Glenda and Jermaine and those he'd left behind think if they saw him now?

What would Rebecca think? If she'd just held on for another month. He'd had so little time to think about her. Into the clouds and the view was gone. Washington

was soon miles behind. Clay Carter was off to a secret meeting of some of the richest lawyers in America, the mass tort specialists, those who had the brains and brawn to go after the most powerful corporations.

And they wanted to meet him!

HIS JET WAS THE smallest one at the Ketchum-Sun Valley airport at Friedman, Idaho. As he taxied by Gulfstreams and Challengers he had the ridiculous thought that his jet was inadequate, that he needed a bigger one. Then he laughed at himself—there he was in the leather-lined cabin of a $3 million Lear, and he was debating whether he should get something bigger. At least he could still laugh. What would he be when the laughing stopped?

They parked next to a familiar plane, one with the tail number 000MT. Zero, Zero, Zero, Mass Tort, the home away from home of Patton French himself. It dwarfed Clay's ride, and for a second he looked up in envy at the finest luxury jet in the world.

A van was waiting, with what appeared to be an imitation cowboy behind the wheel. Fortunately, the driver was not much of a talker, and Clay enjoyed the forty-five-minute ride in silence. They twisted upward on roads that became narrower. Not surprisingly, Patton's spread was postcard perfect and very new. The house was a lodge with enough wings and levels to host a good-sized law firm. Another cowboy took Clay's bag. "Mr. French is waiting on the deck out back," he said, as if Clay had been there many times.

Switzerland was the topic when Clay found them— which secluded ski resort they preferred. He listened for a second as he approached. The other four members of the Plaintiffs' Steering Committee were lounging in chairs, facing the mountains, smoking dark cigars and working on drinks. When they realized Clay was present, they hopped to attention as if the judge had entered the courtroom. In the first three minutes of excited conversation, he was called "brilliant,"

"shrewd,"

"gutsy," and, his favorite, "a visionary."

"You gotta tell us how you found Dyloft," Carlos Hernandez said.

"He won't tell," French said as he mixed some vile concoction for Clay to drink.

"Come on," said Wes Saulsberry, Clay's newest friend. Within just a few minutes, Clay would learn that Wes had made about half a billion on the tobacco settlement three years earlier.

"I'm sworn to silence," Clay said.

The other lawyer from New Orleans was Damon Didier, one of the speakers at a session Clay had attended during his Circle of Barristers weekend. Didier was stone-faced and steely-eyed and Clay remembered wondering how this guy could ever connect with a jury. Didier, he found out soon enough, had made a mint when a river-boat packed with fraternity boys sunk into Lake Pontchartrain. Such misery.

They needed patches and medals, like war heroes.

This one here they gave me for that tanker explosion that killed twenty. I got this one for those boys who got burned on the off-shore drilling rig. This big one here was for the Skinny Ben campaign. This, the war against Big Tobacco. This, the battle against HMOs.

Since Clay had no war stories, he just listened. Tarvan would blow them away, but he could never tell it.

A butler in a Roy Rogers-style shirt informed Mr. French that dinner would be served in an hour. They moved downstairs to a game room with pool tables and big screens. A dozen or so white men were drinking and talking and some were holding pool cues. "The rest of the conspiracy," Hernandez whispered to Clay.

Patton introduced him to the group. The names, faces, and hometowns quickly blurred. Seattle, Houston, Topeka, Boston, and others he didn't catch. And Effingham, Illinois. They all paid homage to this "brilliant" young litigator who'd shocked them with his daring assault on Dyloft.

"I saw the ad the first night it was on," said Bernie somebody from Boston. "Never heard of Dyloft. So I call your hot line, get a nice guy on the other end. I tell him I've been taking the drug, feed him the line, you know. I go to the Web site. It was brilliant. I said to myself, 'I've been ambushed.' Three days later I'm on the air with my own damned Dyloft hot line."

They all laughed, probably because they could each tell similar stories. It had never occurred to Clay that other lawyers would call his hot line and use his Web site in order to steer away cases. But why did this surprise him?

When the admiration was finally over, French said there were a few things to discuss before dinner, which, by the way, would include a fabulous selection of Australian wines. Clay was already dizzy from the fine Cuban cigar and the first double vodka bomb. He was by far the youngest lawyer there, and he felt like a rookie in every way. Especially when it came to drinking. He was in the presence of some professionals.

Youngest lawyer. Smallest jet. No war tales. Weakest liver. Clay decided it was time to grow up.

They crowded around French, who lived for moments like this. He began, "As you know, I've spent a lot of time with Wicks, the in-house guy at Ackerman Labs. Bottom line is they're going to settle, and do it quickly. They're getting hit from every direction, and they want this to go away as soon as possible. Their stock is so low now they're afraid of a takeover. The vultures, including us, are moving in for the kill. If they know how much Dyloft will cost them, then they can restructure some debt and maybe hang on. What they don't want is protracted litigation on many fronts, with verdicts landing everywhere. Neither do they want to fork over tens of millions for defense."

"Poor guys," someone said.

"Business Week mentioned bankruptcy," someone else said. "Have they used that threat?"

"Not yet. And I don't expect them to. Ackerman has far too many assets. We've just completed the financial analysis—we'll crunch the numbers in the morning— and our boys think that the company has between two and th............