THE NEXT MORNING, Clay was taken back to surgery for some minor adjustments to the pins and screws in his legs. "A bit of tweaking," his doctor had called it. Whatever it was required a full dose of anesthesia, which wiped out most of the day. He returned to his room just after noon, and slept for three hours before the drugs wore off. Paulette, not Ridley and not Rebecca, was waiting when he finally came around. "Any word from Oscar?" he said, with a thick tongue.

"He called, said the trial was going well. That's about it," Paulette reported. She adjusted his bed and his pillow and gave him water, and when he was awake for good, she left to run errands. On the way out, she handed him an overnight envelope, unopened.

From Patton French. A handwritten note passed along his best wishes for a speedy recovery, and something else that Clay could not decipher. The attached memo was to the Dyloft Plaintiffs' Steering Committee (now Defendants). The Honorable Helen Warshaw had submitted her weekly additions to her class action. The list was growing. Residual Dyloft damage was popping up all over the nation, and the Defendants were sinking deeper into the quicksand. There were now 381 members of the class, with 24 of them ex-JCC clients who'd signed up with Ms. Warshaw, up three from the week before. As always, Clay slowly read the names, and again wondered how their paths had ever crossed.

Wouldn't his former clients love to see him laid up in the hospital—cut, broken, and bruised? Perhaps one was down the hall, having tumors and organs removed, huddling with loved ones as the clock ticked loudly. He knew he didn't cause their diseases, but for some reason he felt responsible for their suffering.

Ridley finally stopped by on her way home from the gym. She hauled in some books and magazines and tried to appear concerned. After a few minutes she said, "Clay, the decorator called. I need to return to the villa."

Was the decorator male or female? He pondered the question but did not ask.

What an excellent idea!

"When?" he asked.

"Tomorrow, maybe. If the plane is available." Why wouldn't it be available? Clay certainly wasn't going anywhere.

"Sure. I'll call the pilots." Getting her out of town would make his life easier. She was of no benefit around the hospital.

"Thanks," she said, then sat in the chair and began flipping through a magazine. After thirty minutes her time was up. She kissed him on the forehead and disappeared.

The detective was next. Three men from Reedsburg had been arrested early Sunday morning outside a bar in Hagerstown, Maryland. There had been a fight of some sort. They tried to leave the scene, in a dark green minivan, but the driver misjudged something and drove them into a drainage ditch. The detective produced three color photos of the suspects—all rough-looking characters. Clay could not identify any of them.

They worked at the Hanna plant, according to the Chief of Police in Reedsburg. Two had recently been laid off, but that was the only information the detective had managed to extract from the authorities up there. "They're not very cooperative," he said. Having been to Reedsburg, Clay could understand why.

"If you can't identify these guys, then I have no choice but to close the file," the detective said.

"I've never seen them before," Clay said.

The detective placed the photos back in his file and left forever. A parade of nurses and doctors followed with much probing and groping, and after an hour Clay fell asleep.

OSCAR CALLED AROUND 9:30 P.M. The trial had just adjourned for the day. Everyone was exhausted, primarily because Dale Mooneyham had caused such massive carnage in the courtroom. Goffman had reluctantly hauled out its third expert, a spineless horn-rimmed in-house lab rat who'd been in charge of the clinical trials for Maxatil, and after a wonderful and creative direct examination by Roger the Dodger, Mooneyham had proceeded to butcher the poor boy on cross.

"It's an old-fashioned rump-humping." Oscar laughed. "Goffman should be afraid to call any more witnesses."

"Settlement?" Clay asked, drugged and sluggish and sleepy, but trying desperately to catch the details.

"No, but it should be a long night. Rumor is that Goffman might try one more expert tomorrow, then plug the dike and hunker down for the verdict. Mooneyham refuses to talk to them. He looks and acts as if he expects a record verdict."

Clay passed out with the phone wedged against the side of his head. A nurse removed it an hour later.

GOFFMAN'S CEO ARRIVED IN Flagstaff late Wednesday night and was rushed downtown to a tall building where the lawyers were conspiring. He was briefed by Roger Redding and the rest of the defense team and shown the latest numbers by the boys in finance. Every discussion was centered around a doomsday scenario.

Because Redding's rear-end had been so thoroughly whipped, he was adamant that the defense stick to its game plan and call its remaining witnesses. Surely, the tide would turn. Surely, he would find his stride and score some points with his jury. But Bob Mitchell, the chief in-house counsel and a vice president, and Sterling Gibb, the company's longtime lawyer and golfing buddy o............