IN REEDSBURG, THE NEWS that Hanna was laying off twelve hundred workers brought the town to a halt. The announcement came in a letter written by Marcus Hanna and given to all employees.

In fifty years, the company had been through only four layoffs. It had weathered cycles and slowdowns and had always worked hard to keep everyone on the payroll. Now that it was in bankruptcy, the rules were different. The company was under pressure to prove to the court and to its creditors that it had a viable financial future.

Events beyond the control of management were to blame. Flat sales were a factor, but nothing the company hadn't seen many times before. The crushing blow was the failure to reach a settlement in the class-action lawsuit. The company had bargained in good faith, but an overzealous and greedy law firm in D.C. had made unreasonable demands.

Survival was at stake, and Marcus assured his people that the company was not going under. Drastic cost cutting would be required. A painful reduction in expenses for the next year would guarantee a profitable future.

To the twelve hundred getting pink slips, Marcus promised all the help the company could provide.

Unemployment benefits would last for a year. Obviously, Hanna would hire them back as soon as possible, but no promises were made. The layoffs might become permanent.

In the cafes and barbershops, in the hallways of the schools and the pews of the churches, in the bleachers at soccer and peewee football games, on the sidewalks around the town square, in the beer joints and pool halls, the town talked of nothing else. Every one of the eleven thousand residents knew someone who'd just lost his or her job at Hanna. The layoffs were the biggest disaster in the quiet history of Reedsburg. Though the town was tucked away in the Alleghenies, word got out.

The reporter for the Baltimore Press who had written three articles about the Howard County class action was still watching. He was monitoring the bankruptcy filing. He was still chatting with the homeowners as their bricks fell off. News of the layoffs prompted him to go to Reedsburg. He went to the cafes and pool halls and soccer games.

The first of his two stories was as long as a short novel. An author bent on deliberate slander could not have been crueler. All of Reeds-burg's misery could have easily been avoided if the class-action lawyer, J. Clay Carter II of D.C., had not been strident in his quest for large fees.

Since Clay did not read the Baltimore Press, and in fact he was dodging most papers and magazines, he might have avoided the news from Reedsburg, at least for a while. But the still-unknown editor(s) of the unauthorized and unwelcome newsletter faxed it over. The latest copy of "The King of Shorts," obviously thrown together in a hurry, ran the Press story.

Clay read it and wanted to sue the newspaper.

However, he would soon forget about the Baltimore Press because a larger nightmare was looming. A week earlier, a reporter from Newsweek had called and, as usual, been stiff-armed by Miss Glick. Every lawyer dreams of national exposure, but only if it's the high-profile case or billion-dollar verdict. Clay suspected this was neither, and he was right. Newsweek was not really interested in Clay Carter, but rather, his nemesis.

It was a puff piece for Helen Warshaw, two pages of glory that any lawyer would kill for. A striking photo had Ms. Warshaw in a courtroom somewhere, standing in front of an empty jury box, looking quite tenacious and brilliant, but also very believable. Clay had never seen her before, and he'd hoped she would somehow resemble a "ruthless bitch," as Saulsberry had called her. She did not. She was very attractive—short, dark hair and sad brown eyes that would hold the attention of any jury. Clay stared at her and wished he had her case rather than his. Hopefully, they would never meet. And if so, never in a courtroom.

Ms. Warshaw was one of three partners in a New York firm that specialized in attorney malpractice, a rare but growing niche. Now she was going after some of the biggest and richest lawyers in the country, and she was not going to settle. "I've never seen a case with as much jury appeal," she said, and Clay wanted to slit his wrists.

She had fifty Dyloft clients, all dying, all suing. The story gave the quick and dirty history of the class-action litigation.

Of the fifty, for some reason the reporter focused on Mr. Ted Worley, of Upper Marlboro, Maryland, and ran a photo of the poor guy sitting in his backyard with his wife behind him, their arms crossed, both faces sad and frowning. Mr. Worley, weak and trembling and angry, recounted his first contact with Clay Carter, a phone call from nowhere while he was trying to enjoy an Orioles game, the frightening news about Dyloft, the urinalysis, the visit from the young lawyer, the filing of the lawsuit. Everything. "I didn't want to settle," he said more than once.

For Newsweek Mr. Worley produced all of his paperwork—the medical records, the court filings, the insidious contract with Carter that gave the lawyer the authority to settle for any amount over $50,000. Everything, including copies of the two letters Mr. Worley had written to Mr. Carter in protest of the "sellout." The lawyer did not answer the letters.

According to his doctors, Mr. Worley had less than six months to live. Slowly reading each awful word of the story, Clay felt as if he was responsible for the cancer.

Helen explained that the jury would hear from many of her clients by video, since they would not last until the trial. A rather cruel thing to say, Clay thought, but then everything in the story was wicked.

Mr. Carter declined to comment. For good measure, they threw in the White House photo of Clay and Ridley, and they couldn't resist the tidbit that he had donated $250,000 to the Presidential Review.

"He's gonna need friends like the President," Helen Warshaw said, and Clay could almost feel the bullet between his eyes. He flung the magazine across his office. He wished he'd never been to the White House, never met the President, never written that damned check, never met Ted Worley, never met Max Pace, never thought about going to law school.

He called his pilots and told them to hustle to the airport. "Going where, sir?"

"I don't know. Where do you want to go?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Biloxi, Mississippi."

"One person or two?"

"Just me." He hadn't seen Ridley in twenty-four hours and had no desire to take her with him. He needed time away from the city and anything that reminded him of it.

But two days on French's yacht did little to help. Clay needed the company of another conspirator, but Patton was too preoccupied with other class actions. They ate and drank too much.

French had two associates in the courtroom in Phoenix and they were sending e-mails by the hour. He continued to discount Maxatil as a potential target, but he was still watching every move. It was his job, he said, since he was the biggest tort lawyer of them all. He had the experience, the money, the reputation. All mass tort, should, sooner or later, land on his desk.

Clay read the e-mails, and he talked to Mulrooney. Jury selection had taken one full day. Dale Mooneyham was now slowly laying out the plaintiff's case against the drug. The government study was powerful evidence. The jury was keenly interested in it. "So far, so good," Oscar said. "Mooneyham is quite the actor, but Roger has better courtroom skills."

While French juggled three calls at once, with a crushing hangover, Clay sunned on the upper deck and tried to forget his problems. Late on the second afternoon, after a couple of vodkas on the deck, French asked, "How much cash you got left?"

"I don't know. I'm afraid to crunch the numbers."

"Take a guess."

"Twenty million, maybe."

"And how much insurance?"

"Ten million. They canceled me, but they're still on the line for Dyloft."

French sucked on a lemon and said, "I'm not sure thirty million is enough for you."

&qu............