THE YOUNG FIRM'S next reorganization occurred in the same chaotic fashion as the previous ones, and for the same reasons—too many new clients, too much new paperwork, not enough manpower, an unclear chain of command, and a very uncertain management style because no one at the top had ever managed before, maybe with the exception of Miss Glick. Three days after Clay returned from Ketchum, Paulette and Jonah confronted him in his office with a long list of urgent problems. Mutiny was in the air. Nerves were frayed and the fatigue made bad matters worse.

According to the best estimate, the firm now had 3,320 Dyloft cases, and since the cases were brand-new they all needed immediate attention. Not counting Paulette, who was reluctantly assuming the role of office manager, and not counting Jonah, who was spending ten hours a day on a computer system to keep up with the cases, and, of course, not counting Clay because he was the boss and had to give interviews and travel to Idaho, the firm had hired two lawyers and now had ten paralegals, none of whom had more than three months' experience, except for Rodney. "I can't tell a good one from a bad one," Paulette said. "It's too early."

She estimated that each paralegal could handle between one hundred and two hundred cases. "These clients are scared," she said. "They're scared because they have these tumors. They're scared because Dyloft is all over the press. Hell, they're scared because we've scared the hell out of them."

"They want to be talked to," Jonah said. "And they want a lawyer on the other end of the phone, not some frantic paralegal on an assembly line. I'm afraid we'll be losing clients real soon."

"We're not going to lose clients," Clay said, thinking of all those nice sharks he'd just met out in Idaho and how happy they'd be to pick up his disgruntled clients.

"We're drowning in paperwork," Paulette said, taking the tag from Jonah and ignoring Clay. "Every preliminary medical test has got to be analyzed, then verified with a follow-up. Right now, we think we have about four hundred people who need further testing. These could be the serious cases; these people could be dying, Clay. But somebody has to coordinate their medical care with the doctors. It isn't getting done, Clay, okay?"

"I'm listening," he said. "How many lawyers do we need?"

Paulette cast a weary look at Jonah. The two had no answer. "Ten?" she said.

"At least ten," Jonah said. "Ten for now, right now, and maybe more later."

"We're cranking up the advertising," Clay said.

There was a long weary pause as Jonah and Paulette absorbed this. He had briefed them on the high points in Ketchum, but not the details. He had assured them that every case they signed up would soon pay big profits, but he had kept settlement strategies to himself. Loose tongues lose lawsuits, French had warned him, and with such an untested staff it was best to keep them in the dark.

A law firm down the street had just given pink slips to thirty-five associates. The economy was soft, billings were down, a merger was in the works; whatever the real reason the story was newsworthy in D.C. because the job market was normally bulletproof. Layoffs! In the legal profession? In D.C.?

Paulette suggested they hire some of those associates—offer them a one-year contract with no promises of any advancement. Clay volunteered to make the calls first thing the next morning. He would also locate office space and furnishings.

Jonah had the rather unusual idea of hiring a doctor for one year, someone to coordinate the tests and medical evidence. "We can get one fresh out of school for a hundred grand a year," he said. "He wouldn't have much experience, but who cares? He's not doing surgery, just paperwork."

"Get it done," Clay said.

Next on Jonah's list was the matter of the Web site. The advertising had made it quite popular but they needed full-time people to respond to it. Plus it needed to be upgraded almost weekly with the developments on the class action and the latest bad news about Dyloft.

"All these clients are desperate for information, Clay," he said.

For those who didn't use the Internet, and Paulette guessed that at least half their clients fell into that group, a Dyloft newsletter was crucial. "We need one full-time person editing and mailing the newsletter," she said.

"Can you find someone?" Clay asked.

"I suppose so."

"Then do it."

She looked at Jonah, as if whatever needed to be said should come from him. Jonah tossed a legal pad on the desk and cracked his knuckles. "Clay, we're spending huge amounts of money here," he said. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"No, but I think so. Just trust me, okay? We're about to make some serious money. To get there, though, we gotta spend some cash."

"And you have the cash?" Paulette asked.

"Yep."

PACE WANTED A LATE drink in a bar in Georgetown, within walking distance of Clay's town house. He was in and out of the city, very vague, as always, about where he'd been and what fire he happened to be fighting. He had lightened up the wardrobe and now preferred brown—brown pointed-toe snakeskin boots, brown suede jacket. Part of his disguise, Clay thought. Halfway through the first beer Pace got around to Dyloft, and it became evident that whatever the current project was it still had som............