The King of Torts

The December cover of Capitol Magazine featured Clay Carter, looking tanned and quite handsome in an Armani suit, perched on the corner of his desk in his finely appointed office. It was a frantic last-minute substitution for a story titled "Christmas on the Potomac," the usual holiday edition in which a rich old Senator and his newest trophy wife opened their private new Washington mansion for all to see. The couple, and their decorations and cats and favorite recipes, got bumped to the inside because D.C. was first and always a city about money and power. How often would the magazine have the chance at the unbelievable story of a broke young lawyer who got so rich so fast?



There was Clay on his patio with a dog, one he'd borrowed from Rodney, and Clay posing next to the jury box in an empty courtroom as if he'd been extracting huge verdicts from the bad guys, and, of course, Clay washing his new Porsche. He confided that his passion was sailing, and there was a new boat docked down in the Bahamas. No significant romance at the moment, and the story immediately labeled him as one of the most eligible bachelors in town.



Near the back were the pictures of brides, followed by the announcements of upcoming weddings. Every debutante and private school girl and country club socialite in metropolitan D.C. dreamed of the moment when she would arrive in the pages of Capitol Magazine. The larger the photo, the more important the family. Ambitious mothers were known to take a ruler and measure the dimensions of their daughters' pictures and those of their rivals, then either gloat or hold secret grudges for years.



There was Rebecca Van Horn, resplendent on a wicker bench in a garden somewhere, a lovely photo ruined by the face of her groom and future mate, the Honorable Jason Shubert Myers IV, cuddling next to her and obviously enjoying the camera. Weddings are for brides, not grooms. Why did they insist on getting their faces in the announcements too?



Bennett and Barbara had pulled the right strings; Rebecca's announcement was the second largest of a dozen or so. Six pages over, Clay saw a full-page ad for BVH Group. The bribe.



Clay reveled in the misery the magazine was causing at that very moment around the Van Horn home. Rebecca's wedding, the big social bash that Bennett and Barbara could throw money at and impress the world, was being upstaged by their old nemesis. How many times would their daughter get her wedding announcement in Capitol Magazine? How hard had they worked to make sure she was prominently displayed? And all of it now ruined by Clay's thunder.



And his upstaging was not over.



Jonah had already announced that retirement was a real possibility. He'd spent ten days on Antigua with not one girl but two, and when he returned to D.C., in an early December snowstorm, he confided in Clay that he was mentally and psychologically unfit to practice law any longer. He'd had all he could take. His legal career was over. He was looking at sailboats himself. He'd found a girl who loved to sail and, because she was on the downside of a bad marriage, she too needed some serious time at sea. Jonah was from Annapolis and, unlike Clay, had sailed his entire life.



"I need a bimbo, preferably a blonde," Clay said as he settled into a chair across from Jonah's desk. His door was locked. It was after six on a Wednesday and Jonah had the first bottle of beer opened. They had compromised on an unwritten rule that there would be no drinking until 6 P.M. Otherwise, Jonah would start just after lunch.



"The hottest bachelor in town is having trouble picking up chicks?"



"I've been out of the loop. I'm going to Rebecca's wedding, and I need a babe who'll steal the show."



"Oh, this is beautiful," he said as he laughed and reached into a drawer in his desk. Only Jonah would keep files on women. He burrowed through some paperwork and found what he wanted. He tossed a folded newspaper across the desk. It was a lingerie ad for a department store. The gorgeous young goddess was wearing practically nothing below the waist and was barely covering her breasts with her folded arms. Clay vividly remembered seeing the ad the morning it first ran. The date was four months earlier.



"You know her?"



"Of course I know her. You think I keep lingerie ads just for the thrills?" "Wouldn't surprise me." "Her name is Ridley. At least that's what she goes by." "She lives here?" Clay was still gawking at the stunning beauty he was holding, in black and white. "She's from Georgia." "Oh, a Southern girl." "No, a Russian girl. The country of Georgia. She came over as an exchange student and never left." "She looks eighteen." "Mid-twenties." "How tall is she?" "Five ten or so." "Her legs look five feet long." "Are you complaining?" In an effort to appear somewhat nonchalant, Clay tossed the paper back on the desk. "Any downside?" "Yes, she's rumored to be a switch-hitter." "A what?" "She likes boys and girls." "Ouch." "No confirmation, but a lot of models go both ways.



Could be just a rumor for all I know."



"You've dated her."



"Nope. A friend of a friend. She's on my list. I was just waiting for a confirmation. Give it a try. You don't like her, we'll find another bimbo."



"Can you make the call?"



"Sure, no problem. It's an easy call, now that you're Mr. Cover Boy, most eligible bachelor, the King of Torts. Wonder if they know what torts are over in Georgia?"



"Not if they're lucky. Just make the call."



They met for dinner at the restaurant of the month, a Japanese place frequented by the young and prosperous. Ridley looked even better in person than she did in print. Heads jerked and necks twisted as they were led to the center of the restaurant and placed at a very powerful table. Conversations halted in mid-sentence. Waiters swarmed around them. Her slightly accented English was perfect and just exotic enough to add even more sex to the package, as if she needed it.



Old hand-me-downs from a flea market would look great on Ridley. Her challenge was dressing down, so the clothes wouldn't compete with the blond hair and aqua eyes and high cheekbones and the rest of the perfect features.



Her real name was Ridal Petashnakol, which she had to spell twice before Clay got it. Fortunately, models, like soccer players, could survive with only one name, so she went just by Ridley. She drank no alcohol, but instead ordered a cranberry juice. Clay hoped she wouldn't order a plate of carrots for dinner.



She had the looks and he had the money, and since they could talk about neither they thrashed about in deep water for a few minutes looking for safe ground. She was Georgian, not Russian, and cared nothing about politics or terrorism or football. Ah, the movies! She saw everything and loved them all. Even dreadful stuff that no one else went to see. Box office disasters were much beloved by Ridley, and Clay was beginning to have doubts.



She's just a bimbo, he said to himself. Dinner now, Rebecca's wedding later, and she's history.



She spoke five languages, but since most were of the Eastern European variety they seemed pretty useless in the fast lane. Much to his relief, she ordered a first course, second course, and dessert. Conversation wasn't easy, but both worked hard at it. Their backgrounds were so different. The lawyer in him wanted a thorough examination of the witness; real name, age, blood type, father's occupation, salary, marital history, sexual history - is it true you're a switch-hitter? But he managed to throttle himself and not pry at all. He nibbled around the edges once or twice, got nothing, and went back to the movies. She knew every twenty-year-old B actor and who he happened to be dating at the moment - painfully boring stuff, but, then, probably not as boring as having a bunch of lawyers talk about their latest trial victories or toxic tort settlements.



Clay knocked back the wine and got himself loosened up. It was a red burgundy. Patton French would've been proud. If only his mass tort buddies could see him now, sitting across from this Barbie Doll.



The only negative was the nasty rumor. Surely she couldn't go for women. She was too perfect, too exquisite, too appealing to the opposite sex. She was destined to be a trophy wife! But there was something about her that kept him suspicious. Once the initial shock of her looks wore off, and that took at least two hours and one bottle of wine, Clay realized he wasn't getting past the surface. Either there wasn't much depth, or it was carefully protected.



Over dessert, a chocolate mousse that she toyed with but did not eat, he invited her to attend a wedding reception. He confessed that the bride was his former fiancee, but lied when he said that they were now on friendly terms. Ridley shrugged as if she preferred to go to the movies. "Why not?" she said.



As he turned into the drive of the Potomac Country Club, Clay was hit hard by the moment. His last visit to this wretched place had been more than seven months earlier, a torturous dinner with Rebecca's parents. Then he'd hidden his old Honda behind the tennis courts. Now, he was showing off a freshly detailed Porsche Carrera. Then, he'd avoided the valet parking to save money. Now he'd tip the kid extra. Then, he was alone and dreading the next few hours with the Van Horns. Now he was escorting the priceless Ridley, who held his elbow and crossed her legs in such a way that the slit in her skirt showed all the way to her waist; and wherever her parents happened to be at the moment they damned sure weren't involved in his life. Then, he'd felt like a vagrant on hallowed ground. Now the Potomac Country Club would approve his application tomorrow if he wrote the right check.



"Van Horn wedding reception," he said to the guard, who waved him through.



They were an hour late, which was perfect timing. The ballroom was packed and a rhythm and blues band played at one end.



"Stay close to me," Ridley whispered as they entered. "I won't know anyone here."



"Don't worry," Clay said. Staying close would not be a problem. And though he pretended otherwise, he wouldn't know anyone either.



Heads began turning immediately. Jaws dropped. With several drinks under their belts the men did not hesitate to gawk at Ridley as she and her date inched forward. "Hey, Clay!" someone yelled, and Clay turned to see the smiling face of Randy Spino, a law school classmate who worked in a megafirm and would never, under normal circumstances, have spoken to Clay in such surroundings. A chance meeting on the street, and maybe Spino would say, "How's it going?" without breaking stride. But never in a country club crowd, and especially one so dominated by big-firm types.



But there he was, thrusting a hand forward at Clay while showing Ridley every one of his teeth. A small mob followed. Spino took charge, introducing all of his good friends to his good friend Clay Carter and Ridley with no last name. She squeezed Clay's elbow even tighter. All the boys wanted to say hello.



To get close to Ridley they needed to chat with Clay, so it was only a few seconds before someone said, "Hey, Clay, congratulations on nailing Ackerman Labs." Clay had never seen the person who congratulated him. He assumed he was a lawyer, probably from a big firm, probably a big firm that represented big corporations like Ackerman Labs, and he knew before the sentence was finished that the false praise was driven by envy. And a desire to stare at Ridley.



"Thanks," Clay said, as if it was just another day at the office.



"A hundred million. Wow!" This face, too, belonged to a stranger, one who appeared to be drunk.



"Well, half goes for taxes," Clay said. Who could get by these days on just $50 million?



The mob exploded in laughter, as if Clay had just hit the funniest punch line ever. More people gathered around, all men, all inching toward this striking blonde who looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps they didn't recognize her in full color with her clothes on.



An intense, stuffy type said, "We got Philo. Boy, were we glad to get that Dyloft mess settled." It was an affliction suffered by most D.C. lawyers. Every corporation in the world had D.C. counsel, if in name only, and so every dispute or transaction had grave consequences among the city's lawyers. A refinery blows up in Thailand, and a lawyer will say, "Yeah, we got Exxon." A blockbuster flops - "We got Disney." An SUV flips and kills five - "We got Ford."



"We-Gots" was a game Clay had heard until he was sick of it.



I got Ridley, he wanted to say, so keep your hands off.



An announcement was being made onstage and the room became quieter. The bride and groom were about to dance, to be followed by the bride and her father, then the groom and his mother, and so on. The crowd gathered around to watch. The band began playing "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes."



"She's very pretty," Ridley whispered, very close to his right ear. Indeed she was. And she was dancing with Jason Myers who, though he was two inches shorter, appeared to Rebecca to be the only person in the world. She smiled and glowed as they spun slowly around the dance floor, the bride doing most of the work because her groom was as stiff as a board.



Clay wanted to attack, to bolt through the crowd and sucker punch Myers with all the force he could muster. He would rescue his girl and take her away and shoot her mother if she found them.



"You still love her, don't you?" Ridley was whispering.



"No, it's over," he whispered back.



"You do. I can tell."



"No."



The newlyweds would go somewhere tonight and consummate their marriage, though knowing Rebecca as intimately as he did, he knew she had not been doing without sex. She'd probably taken this worm Myers and educated him in the ways of the bed. A lucky man. The things Clay had taught her she was now passing along to someone else. It wasn't fair.



The two were painful to watch, and Clay asked himself why he was there. Closure, whatever that meant. A farewell. But he wanted Rebecca to see him, and Ridley, and to know that he was faring well and not missing her.



Watching Bennett the Bulldozer dance was painful for other reasons. He subscribed to the white man's theory of dancing without moving his feet, and when he tried to shake his butt the band actually laughed. His cheeks were already crimson from too much Chivas.



Jason Myers danced with Barbara Van Horn who, from a distance, looked as though she'd had another round or two with her discount plastic surgeon. She was poured into a dress that, while pretty, was several sizes too small, so that the extra flab was bulging in the wrong spots and seemed ready to free itself and make everyone sick. She had plastered across her face the phoniest grin she'd ever produced - no wrinkles anywhere, though, due to excessive Botox - and Myers grinned right back as if the two would be close chums forever. She was already knifing him in the back and he was too stupid to know it. Sadly, she probably didn't know it either. Just the nature of the beast.



"Would you like to dance?" someone asked Ridley.



"Bug off," Clay said, then led her to the dance floor where a mob was gyrating to some pretty good Motown. If Ridley standing still was a work of art, Ridley in full motion was a national treasure. She moved with a natural rhythm and easy grace, with the low-cut dress just barely high enough and the slit in the skirt flying open to reveal all manner of flesh. Groups of men were gathering to watch.



And watching also was Rebecca. Taking a break to chat with her guests, she noticed the commotion and looked into the crowd, where she saw Clay dancing with a knockout. She, too, was stunned by Ridley, but for other reasons. She continued chatting for a moment, then moved back to the dance floor.



Meanwhile, Clay's eyes were working furiously to check on Rebecca without missing a movement from Ridley. The song ended, a slow number began, and Rebecca stepped between them. "Hello, Clay," she said, ignoring his date. "How about a dance?"



"Sure," he said. Ridley shrugged and moved away, alone for only a second before a stampede surrounded her. She picked the tallest one, threw her arms around him, and began pulsating.



"Don't remember inviting you." Rebecca said with an arm over his shoulder.



"You want me to leave?" He pulled her slightly closer but the bulky wedding dress prevented the contact he wanted.



"People are watching," she said, smiling for their benefit. "Why are you here?"



"To celebrate your wedding. And to get a good look at your new boy."



"Don't be ugly, Clay. You're just jealous."



"I'm more than jealous. I'd like to break his neck."



"Where'd you get the bimbo?"



"Now who's jealous?"



"Me."



"Don't worry, Rebecca, she can't touch you in bed." On second thought, perhaps she'd like to. Anyway.



"Jason's not bad."



"I really don't want to hear about it. Just don't get pregnant, okay?"



"That's hardly any of your business."



"It's very much my business."



Ridley and her beau swept by them. For the first time Clay got a good look at her back, the full extent of which was on display because her dress didn't exist until just a few tiny inches above her round and perfect cheeks. Rebecca saw it too. "Is she on the payroll?" she asked.



"Not yet."



"Is she a minor?"



"Oh no. She's very much the adult. Tell me you still love me."



"I don't."



"You're lying."



"It might be best if you leave now, and take her with you."



"Sure, it's your party. Didn't mean to crash it."



"That's the only reason you're here, Clay." She pulled away slightly but kept dancing.



"Hang in there for a year, okay?" he said. "By then I'll have two hundred million. We can hop on my jet, blow this joint, spend the rest of our lives on a yacht. Your parents will never find us."



She stopped moving and said, "Good-bye, Clay."



"I'll wait," he said, then got knocked aside by a stumbling Bennett who said, "Excuse me." He grabbed his daughter and rescued her by shuffling to the other side of the floor.



Barbara was next. She took Clay's hand and flashed an artificial smile. "Let's not make a scene," she said without moving her lips. They began a rigid movement that no one would mistake for dancing.



"And how are you, Mrs. Van Horn?" Clay said, in the clutches of a pit viper.



"Fine, until I saw you. I'm positive you were not invited to this little party."



"I was just leaving."



"Good. I'd hate to call security."



"That won't be necessary."



"Don't ruin this moment for her, please."



"Like I said. I was just leaving."



The music stopped and Clay jerked away from Mrs. Van Horn. A small mob materialized around Ridley, but Clay whisked her off. They retreated to the back of the room where a bar was attracting more fans than the band. Clay grabbed a beer and was planning an exit when another group of onlookers encircled them. Lawyers in the bunch wanted to talk about the joys of mass torts while pressing close to Ridley.



After a few minutes of idiotic small talk with people he detested, a thick young man in a rented tuxedo appeared next to Clay and whispered, "I'm security." He had a friendly face and seemed very professional.



"I'm leaving," Clay whispered back.



Tossed from the Van Horn wedding reception. Ejected from the great Potomac Country Club. Driving away, with Ridley wrapped around him, he privately declared it to be one of his finest moments.