REX CRITTLE WANTED TO SCOLD, TO BE reassured, to lecture, to educate, but his client sitting across the desk seemed completely unshaken by the figures.

"Your firm is six months old," Crittle said, peering over his reading glasses with a pile of reports in front of him. The evidence! He had the proof that the boutique firm of the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II was in fact being run by idiots. "Your overhead began at an impressive seventy-five thousand a month—three lawyers, one paralegal, a secretary, serious rent, nice digs. Now it's a half a million bucks a month, and growing every day."

"You gotta spend it to make it," Clay said, sipping coffee and enjoying his accountant's discomfort. That was the sign of a good bean counter—one who lost more sleep over the expenses than the client himself.

"But you're not making it," Crittle said cautiously. "No revenue in the past three months."

"It's been a good year."

"Oh yes. Fifteen million in fees makes for a splendid year. Problem is, it's evaporating. You spent fourteen thousand bucks last month chartering jets."

"Now that you mention it, I'm thinking about buying one. I'll need you to crunch the numbers."

"I'm crunching them right now. You can't justify one." "That's not the issue. The issue is whether or not I can

afford one." "No, you cannot afford one." "Hang on, Rex. Relief is in sight." "I assume you're talking about the Dyloft cases? Four

million dollars for advertising. Three thousand a month for a Dyloft Web site. Now three thousand a month for the Dyloft newsletter. All those paralegals out in Manassas. All these new lawyers."

"I think the question will be, should I lease one for five

years or just buy it outright?" "What?" "The Gulf stream." "What's a Gulfstream?" "The finest private jet in the world." "What are you going to do with a Gulfstream?" "Fly." "Why, exactly, do you think you need one?" "It's the preferred jet of all the big mass tort lawyers." "Oh, that makes sense." "I thought you'd come around." "Any idea how much one might cost?" "Forty, forty-five million." "I hate to break the news, Clay, but you don't have

forty million." "You're right. I think I'll just lease one." Crittle removed his reading glasses and massaged his

long, skinny nose, as if a severe headache was developing there. "Look, Clay, I'm just your accountant. But I'm not sure if there's anyone else who is telling you to slow down. Take it easy, pal. You've made a fortune, enjoy it. You don't need a big firm with so many lawyers. You don't need jets. What's next? A yacht?"

"Yes." "You're serious?" "Yes." "I thought you hated boats." "I do. It's for my father. Can I depreciate it?" "No." "Bet I can." "How?" "I'll charter it when I'm not using it." When Crittle was finished with his nose, he replaced

his glasses and said, "It's your money, pal."

THEY MET IN New York City, on neutral ground, in the dingy ballroom of an old hotel near Central Park, the last place anyone would expect such an important gathering to take place. On one side of the table sat the Dyloft Plaintiffs' Steering Committee, five of them, including young Clay Carter who felt quite out of place, and behind them were all manner of assistants and associates and gofers employed by Mr. Patton French. Across the table was the Ackerman team, headed by Cal Wicks, a distinguished veteran who was flanked by an equal number of supporters.

One week earlier, the government had approved the merger with Philo Products, at $53 a share, which for Clay meant another profit, somewhere around $6 million. He'd buried half of it off-shore, never to be touched. So the venerable company founded by the Ackerman brothers a century earlier was about to be consumed by Philo, a company with barely half its annual revenues but a lot less debt and a much brighter management.

As Clay took his seat and spread his files and tried to convince himself that, yes, dammit, he did belong there, he thought he noticed some harsh frowns from the other side. Finally, the folks at Ackerman Labs were getting to see in person this young upstart from D.C. who'd started their Dyloft nightmare.

Patton French may have had plenty of backup, but he needed none. He took charge of the first session and soon everyone else shut up, with the exception of Wicks, who spoke only when necessary. They spent the morning nailing down the number of cases out there. The Biloxi class had 36,700 plaintiffs. A renegade group of lawyers in Georgia had 5,200 and were threatening an end run with another class action. French felt confident he could dissuade them. Other lawyers had opted out of the class and were planning solo trials in their backyards, but again, French wasn't worried about them. They did not have the crucial documents, nor were they likely to get them.

Numbers poured forth, and Clay was soon bored with it all. The only number that mattered to him was 5,380— his Dyloft share. He still had more than any single lawyer, though French himself had closed the gap brilliantly and had just over 5,000.

After three hours of nonstop statistics, they agreed on a one-hour lunch. The plaintiffs' committee went upstairs to a suite, where they ate sandwiches and drank only water. French was soon on the phone, talking and yelling at the same time. Wes Saulsberry wanted some fresh air, and invited Clay for a quick walk around the block. They strolled up Fifth Avenue, across from the park. It was mid-November, the air chilly and light, the leaves blowing across the street. A great time to be in the city.

"I love to come here and I love to leave," Saulsberry said. "Right now it's eighty-five in New Orleans, humidity still at ninety."

Clay just listened. He was too preoccupied with the excitement of the moment; the settlement that was only hours away, the enormous fees, the complete freedom of being young and single and so wealthy.

"How old are you, Clay?" Wes was saying.

"Thirty-one."

"When I was thirty-three, my partner and I settled a tanker explosion case for a ton of money. A horrible case, a dozen men were burned. We split twenty-eight million in fees, right down the middle.

My partner took his fourteen mil and retired. I invested mine in myself. I built a law firm full of dedicated trial lawyers, some really talented people who love what they're doing. I built a building in downtown New Orleans, kept hiring the best folks I could find. Now we're up to ninety lawyers, and in the past ten years we've raked in eight hundred million bucks in fees. My old partner? A sad case. You don't retire when you're thirty-three, it's not normal. Most of the money went up his nose. Three bad marriages. Gambling problems. I hired him two years ago as a paralegal, a sixty-thousand-dollar salary, and he's not worth that."

"I haven't thought of retiring," Clay said. A lie.

"Don't. You're about to make a ton of money, and you deserve it. Enjoy it. Get an airplane, buy a nice boat, a condo on the beach, a place in Aspen, all the toys. But plow the real money back into your firm. Take advice from a guy who's been there."

"Thanks, I guess."

They turned onto Seventy-third and headed east. Saulsberry wasn't finished. "You're familiar with the lead paint cases?"

"Not really."

"They're not as famous as the drug cases, but pretty damned lucrative. I started the rage about ten years ago. Our clients are schools, churches, hospitals, commercial buildings, all with layers of lead paint on the walls. Very dangerous stuff. We've sued the paint manufacturers, settled with a few. Couple of billion so far. Anyway, during discovery against one company I found out about another nice little mass tort that you might want to look at. I can't handle it because of some conflicts."

"I'm listening............