Apparently, one of the Hannas understood the importance of leaks as well. The Baltimore Press ran a long story about the bankruptcy and the immediate reaction by the homeowners. Its details were deadly accurate and evidence that someone very close to the settlement negotiations was whispering to the reporter. The company had offered $17,000 per plaintiff; a liberal estimate to repair each home was $15,000. The lawsuit could've have been fairly settled but for the issue of attorneys' fees. Hanna admitted liability from the very beginning. It had been willing to borrow heavily to correct its mistakes. And so on.
The plaintiffs were extremely unhappy. The reporter ventured out into the suburbs and found an impromptu meeting in a garage. He was given a tour of a few of the homes to survey the damages. He collected numerous comments: "We should've dealt directly with Hanna."
"The company was out here before that lawyer got involved."
"A bricklayer I talked to said he could take off the old and put on the new for eleven thousand dollars. And we turned down seventeen? I just don't understand it."
"I never met that lawyer."
"I didn't realize I was in the class action until after it was filed."
"We didn't want the company to go bankrupt."
"No, they were nice guys. They were trying to help us."
"Can we sue the lawyer?"
"I tried calling him, but the lines are busy."
The reporter was then obliged to provide some background on Clay Carter, and of course he began with the Dyloft fees. Things got worse from there. Three photographs helped tell the story; the first was a homeowner pointing to her crumbling bricks; the second was the group meeting in the garage; and the third was Clay in a tuxedo and Ridley in a beautiful dress as they posed in the White House before the state dinner. She was stunning; he was quite handsome himself, though taken in context, it was difficult to appreciate what an attractive couple they were. A real cheap shot.
"Mr. Carter, seen above at a White House dinner, could not be reached for comment."
Damned right they're not reaching me, Clay thought.
And so began another day at the offices of JCC. Phones ringing nonstop as irate clients wanted someone to yell at. A security guard in the lobby just in case. Associates gossiping in small groups about the survival of the place. Second-guessing by every employee. The boss locked in his office. No real cases to work on because all the firm had now was a trainload of Maxatil files, and there was little do with them because Goffman wasn't returning calls either.
Fun and games had been happening all over the District at Clay's expense, though he didn't know it until the story ran in the Press. It had started with the Dyloft stories in The Wall Street Journal; a few faxes here and there around the city to make sure that those who knew Clay, either from college, law school, his father, or at OPD, got the current news. It picked up steam when American Attorney ranked him number eight in earnings - more faxes, more e-mails, a few jokes added in for spice. It became even more popular when Helen Warshaw filed her heinous lawsuit. Some lawyer somewhere in the city, one with too much time on his hands, titled it "The King of Shorts," gave it a rough and quick format, and started the faxes. Someone with a slight artistic bent added a crude cartoon of Clay naked with his boxer shorts around his ankles, looking quite perplexed. Any news about him would provoke another edition. The publisher, or publishers, would pick stories off the Internet, print them in a newsletter format, and share them. The criminal investigation was big news. There was the photo from the White House, some gossip about his airplane, one story about his father.
The anonymous editors had been faxing copies to Clay's office from the beginning, but Miss Glick had trashed them. Several of the Yale boys also received faxes, and they too protected their boss. Oscar brought in the latest edition and tossed it on Clay's desk. "Just so you'll know," he said. The current edition was a reproduction of the story in the Press.
"Any idea who's behind this?" Clay asked.
"No. They're faxed around the city, sort of like a chain letter."
"Don't these people have better things to do?"
"I guess not. Don't worry about it, Clay. It's always been lonely at the top."
"So I have my own personal newsletter. My, my, eighteen months ago no one knew my name."
There was a commotion outside - sharp, angry voices. Clay and Oscar ran from his office into the hallway where the security guard was scuffling with a very disturbed gentleman. Associates and secretaries were entering the picture.
"Where is Clay Carter!" the man yelled.
"Here!" Clay yelled back and walked up to him. "What do you want?"
The man was suddenly still, though the guard kept his grip. Ed Wyatt and another associate moved close to him. "I'm one of your clients," the man said, breathing heavily. "Let go of me," he snapped and shook free from the guard.
"Leave him alone," Clay said.
"I'd like a conference with my attorney," the man said.
"This is not the way to schedule one," Clay shot back, very coolly. He was being watched by his employees.
"Yeah, well, I tried the other way, but all the lines are busy. You screwed us out of a good settlement with the cement company. We want to know why. Not enough money for you?"
"I guess you believe everything you read in the newspapers," Clay said.
"I believe we got screwed by our own lawyer. And we're not taking it without a fight."
"You folks need to relax and stop reading the papers. We're still working on the settlement." It was a lie, but one with good intentions. The rebellion needed to be quashed, at least there in the office.
"Cut your fees and get us some money," the man snarled. "And that's coming from your clients."
"I'll get you a settlement," Clay said with a fake smile. "Just relax."
"Otherwise, we're going to the bar association."
"Keep your cool."
The man backed away, then turned and left the suite.
"Back to work everybody," Clay said, clapping his hands together as if everybody had plenty of work to do.
Rebecca arrived an hour later, a random visitor from the street. She stepped into the JCC suite and gave a note to the receptionist. "Please give that to Mr. Carter," she said. "It's very important."
The receptionist glanced at the security guard, who was on high alert, and it took several seconds to determine that the attractive young lady was probably not a threat. "I'm an old friend," Rebecca said.
Whatever she was, she managed to fetch Mr. Carter out of the back faster than anyone in the short history of the firm. They sat in the corner of his office; Rebecca on the sofa, Clay in a chair pulled as close as possible. For a long time nothing was said. Clay was too excited to utter a coherent sentence. Her presence could mean a hundred different things, none of them bad.
He wanted to lunge at her, to feel her body again, to smell the perfume on her neck, to run his hands along her legs. Nothing had changed - same hair style, same makeup, same lipstick, same bracelet.
"You're staring at my legs," she finally said.
"Yes I am."
"Clay, are you okay? There's so much bad press right now."
"And that's why you're here?"
"Yes. I'm concerned."
"To be concerned means you still care about me."
"I do."
"So you haven't forgotten about me?"