THE SUITE WAS in a different hotel. Pace was moving around D.C. as if spies were trailing him. After a quick hello and the offer of coffee, they sat down for business. Clay could tell that the pressure of burying the secret was working on Pace. He looked tired. His movements were anxious. His words came faster. The smile was gone. No questions about the weekend or the fishing down there in the Bahamas. Pace was about to cut a deal, either with Clay Carter or the next lawyer on his list. They sat at a table, each with a legal pad, pens ready to attack.

"I think five million per death is a better figure," Clay began. "Sure they're street kids whose lives have little economic value, but what your client has done is worth millions in punitive damages. So we blend the actual with the punitive and we arrive at five million."

"The guy in the coma died last night," Pace said.

"So we have six victims."

"Seven. We lost another one Saturday morning."

Clay had multiplied five million times six so many times he had trouble accepting the new figure. "Who? Where?"

"I'll give you the dirty details later, okay? Let's say it's been a very long weekend. While you were fishing, we were monitoring nine-one-one calls, which on a busy weekend in this city takes a small army."

"You're sure it's a Tarvan case?"

"We're certain."

Clay scribbled something meaningless and tried to adjust his strategy. "Let's agree on five million per death," he said.

"Agreed."

Clay had convinced himself flying home from Abaco that it was a game of zeroes. Don't think of it as real money, just a string of O's after some numbers. For the time being, forget what the money can buy. Forget the dramatic changes about to come. Forget what a jury might do years down the road. Just play the zeroes. Ignore the sharp knife twisting in your stomach. Pretend your guts are lined with steel. Your opponent is weak and scared, and very rich and very wrong.

Clay swallowed hard and tried to speak in a normal tone. "The attorneys' fees are too low," he said.

"Oh really?" Pace said and actually smiled. "Ten million won't cut it?"

"Not for this case. Your exposure would be much greater if a big tort firm were involved."

"You catch on quick, don't you?"

"Half will go for taxes. The overhead you have planned for me will be very expensive. I'm expected to put together a real law firm in a matter of days, and do so in the high-rent district. Plus, I want to do something for Tequila and the other defendants who are getting shafted in all this."

"Just give me a figure." Pace was already scribbling something down.

"Fifteen million will make the transition smoother."

"Are you throwing darts?"

"No, just negotiating."

"So you want fifty million—thirty-five for the families, fifteen for you. Is that it?"

"That should do it."

"Agreed." Pace thrust a hand over and said, "Congratulations."

Clay shook it. He could think of nothing to say but "Thanks."

"There is a contract, with some details and stipulations." Max was reaching into a briefcase.

"What kinds of stipulations?"

"For one, you can never mention Tarvan to Tequila Watson, his new lawyer, or to any of the other criminal defendants involved in this matter. To do so would be to severely compromise everything. As we discussed earlier, drug addiction is not a legal defense to a crime. It could be a mitigating circumstance during sentencing, but Mr. Watson committed murder and whatever he was taking at the time is not relevant to his defense."

"I understand this better than you."

"Then forget about the murderers. You now represent the families of their victims. You're on the other side of the street, Clay, so accept it. Our deal will pay you five million up front, another five in ten days, and the remaining five upon final completion of all settlements.

You mention Tarvan to anyone and the deal is off. You breach our trust with the defendants, and you'll lose one helluva lot of money."

Clay nodded and stared at the thick contract now on the table.

"This is basically a confidentiality agreement," Max continued, tapping the paperwork. "It's filled with dark secrets, most of which you'll have to hide from your own secretary. For example, my client's name is never mentioned. There's a shell corporation now set up in Bermuda with a new division in the Dutch Antilles that answers to a Swiss outfit headquartered in Luxembourg. The paper trail begins and ends over there and no one, not even me, can follow it without getting lost. Your new clients are getting the money; they're not supposed to ask questions. We don't think this will be a problem. For you, you're making a fortune. We don't expect sermons from a higher moral ground. Just take your money, finish the job, everybody will be happier."

"Just sell my soul?"

"As I said, skip the sermons. You're doing nothing unethical.

You're getting huge settlements for clients who have no clue that they are due anything. That's not exactly selling your soul. And what if you get rich? You won't be the first lawyer to get a windfall."

Clay was thinking about the first five million. Due immediately.

Max filled in some blanks deep in the contract, then slid it across the table. "This is our preliminary deal. Sign it, and I can then tell you more about my client. I'll get us some coffee."

Clay took the document, held it as it grew heavier, then tried to read the opening paragraph. Max was on the phone to room service.

He would resign immediately, on that day, from the Office of the Public Defender and withdraw as counsel of record for Tequila Watson. The paperwork had already been done and was attached to the contract. He would charter his own law firm directly; hire sufficient staff, open bank accounts, etcetera. A proposed charter for the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II was also attached, all boilerplate. He would, as soon as practicable, contact the seven families and begin the process of soliciting their cases.

Coffee arrived and Clay kept reading. Max was on a cell phone across the suite, whispering in a hushed, serious voice, no doubt relaying the latest events to his superior. Or perhaps he was monitoring his network to see if another Tarvan murder had occurred. For his signature on page eleven, Clay would receive, by immediate wire, the sum of $5 million, a figure that had just been neatly written in by Max. His hands shook when he signed his name, not from fear or moral uncertainty, but from zero shock.

When the first round of paperwork was complete, they left the hotel, and climbed into an SUV driven by the same bodyguard who'd met Clay in the lobby of the Willard. "I suggest we get the bank account opened first," Max said softly but firmly. Clay was Cinderella going to the ball, just along for the ride because it was all a dream now.

"Sure, a good idea," he managed to say.

"Any bank in particular?" Pace asked.

Clay's current bank would be shocked to see the type of activity that was coming. His checking account there had barely managed to remain above the minimum for so long that any significant deposit would set off alarms. A lowly bank manager had once called to break the news that a small loan was past due. He could almost hear a big shot upstairs gasping in disbelief as he gawked at a printout.

"I'm sure you have one in mind," Clay said.

"We have a close relationship with Chase. The wires will run smoother there."

Then Chase it would be, Clay thought with a smile. Anything to speed along the wires.

"Chase Bank, on Fifteenth," Max said to the driver, who was already headed in that direction. Max pulled out more papers. "Here's the lease and sublease on your office. It's prime space, as you know, and certainly not cheap. ............