THE ENTIRE FLOOR above his firm became vacant at the end of the year. Clay leased half of it and consolidated his operations. He brought in the twelve paralegals and five secretaries from the Sweatshop; the Yale Branch lawyers who'd been in other space were likewise transferred to Connecticut Avenue, to the land of higher rents, where they felt more at home. He wanted his entire firm under one roof, and close at hand, because he planned to work them all until they dropped.

He attacked the new year with a ferocious work schedule—in the office by six with breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner at his desk. He was usually there until eight or nine at night, and left little doubt that he expected similar hours from those who wanted to stay.

Jonah did not. He was gone by the middle of January, his office cleared and vacated, his farewells quick. The sailboat was waiting. Don't bother to call. Just wire the money to an account in Aruba.

Oscar Mulrooney was measuring Jonah's office before he got out the door. It was larger and had a better view, which meant nothing to him, but it was closer to Clay's and that was what mattered. Mulrooney smelled money, serious fees. He missed on Dyloft, but he would not miss again. He and the rest of the Yale boys had been shafted by the corporate law they'd been trained to covet, and now they were determined to make a mint in retribution. And what better way than by outright solicitation and ambulance-chasing? Nothing was more offensive to the stuffed shirts in the blue-blood firms. Mass tort litigation was not practicing law. It was a roguish form of entrepreneurship.

The aging Greek playboy who'd married Paulette Tullos and then left her had somehow gotten wind of her new money. He showed up in D.C., called her at the swanky condo he'd given her, and left a message on her answering machine. When Paulette heard his voice, she raced from her home and flew to London, where she'd spent the holidays and was still in hiding. She e-mailed Clay a dozen times while he was on Mustique, telling him of her predicament and instructing him on exactly how to handle her divorce upon his return. Clay filed the necessary papers, but the Greek was nowhere to be found. Nor was Paulette. She might come back in a few months; she might not. "Sorry, Clay," she said on the phone. "But I really don't want to work anymore."

So Mulrooney became the confidant, the unofficial partner with big ambitions. He and his team had been studying the shifting landscape of class-action litigation. They learned the law and the procedures. They read the scholarly articles by the academics, and they read the down-in-the-trenches war stories from trial lawyers. There were dozens of Web sites—one that purported to list all class actions now pending in the United States, a total of eleven thousand; one that instructed potential plaintiffs on how to join a class and receive compensation; one that specialized in lawsuits involving women's health; one for the men; several for the Skinny Ben diet pill fiasco; several for tobacco litigation. Never had so much brainpower, backed by so much cash, been aimed at the makers of bad products.

Mulrooney had a plan. With so many class actions already filed, the firm could spend its considerable resources in rounding up new clients. Because Clay had the money for advertising and marketing, they could pick the most lucrative class actions and zero in on untapped plaintiffs. As with Dyloft, almost every lawsuit that had been settled was left open for a period of years to allow new participants to collect what they were entitled to. Clay's firm could simply ride the coattails of other mass tort lawyers, sort of pick up the pieces, but for huge fees. He used the example of Skinny Bens. The best estimate of the number of potential plaintiffs was around three hundred thousand, with perhaps as many as a hundred thousand still unidentified and certainly unrepresented. The litigation had been settled; the company was forking over billions. A claimant simply had to register with the class-action administrator, prove her medicals, and collect the money.

Like a general moving his troops, Clay assigned two lawyers and a paralegal to the Skinny Ben front. This was less than what Mulrooney asked for, but Clay had bigger plans. He laid out the war on Maxatil, a lawsuit that he would direct himself. The government report, still un-released and evidently stolen by Max Pace, was one hundred forty pages long and filled with damning results. Clay read it twice before he gave it to Mulrooney.

On a snowy night in late January, they worked until after midnight going through it, then made detailed plans for the attack. Clay assigned Mulrooney and two other lawyers, two paralegals, and three secretaries to the Maxatil litigation.

At two in the morning, with a heavy snow hitting the conference room window, Mulrooney said he had something unpleasant to discuss. "We need more money."

"How much?" Clay asked.

"There are thirteen of us now, all from big firms where we were doing quite well. Ten of us are married, most have kids, we're feeling the pressure, Clay. You gave us one-year contracts for seventy-five thousand, and, believe me, we're happy to get them. You have no idea what it's like to go to Yale, or a school like it, get wined and dined by the big firms, take a job, get married, then get tossed into the streets with nothing. Does something to the old ego, you know?"

"I understand."

"You doubled my salary and I appreciate it more than you'll ever know. I'm getting by. But the other guys are struggling. And they're very proud men."

"How much?"

"I'd hate to lose any of them. They're bright. They work their tails off."

"Let's do it like this, Oscar. I'm a very generous guy these days. I'll give all of you a new contract for one year, at two hundred grand. What I get in return is a ton of hours. We're on the brink here of something huge, bigger than last year. You guys deliver, and I'll do bonuses. Big fat bonuses. I love bonuses, Oscar, for obvious reasons. Deal?"

"You got it, chief."

The snow was too heavy to drive in, so they continued the marathon. Clay had preliminary reports on the company in Reedsburg, Pennsylvania, that was making defective brick mortar. Wes Saulsberry had passed along the secret file he'd mentioned in New York. Masonry cement wasn't as exciting as bladder tumors or blood clots or leaky heart valves, but the money was just as green. They assigned two lawyers and a paralegal to prepare the class action and to go find some plaintiffs.

They were together for ten straight hours in the conference room, guzzling coffe............