Book
Reviews
|
|||
|
Go to Executive Times
Archives |
|||
|
The King
of Torts by John Grisham Rating: • (Read only if your interest is strong) |
|
||
|
Click on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
|
||
|
|
|||
|
Reform One likely outcome of wide readership of
John Grisham’s new novel, The King
of Torts, is that more people will be in favor of tort reform. In his
typical clumsy style, Grisham transforms protagonist Clay Carter from public
defender to king of torts with no real character development. The evil tort
lawyers just aren’t evil enough. Clay’s adolescent behavior at his former
girlfriend, Rebecca’s wedding, makes us even more confused about his
character. But then again, we read Grisham because everyone else is, not
because he’s good. The King
of Torts will be popular, but it has a predictable plot, and even Grisham
has done better before. So unless you have to read what everyone else is, or
are a real Grisham fan, take a pass. Here’s an excerpt (pp. 128-31) of Clay at
a tort lawyers workshop: The
only nine o’clock session on Saturday morning was an update on class-action
legislation currently being debated in Congress. The topic drew a small
crowd. For $5,000, Clay was determined to soak up as much as he could. Of the
few present, he appeared to be the only one without a hangover. Tall cups of
steaming coffee were being drained around the ballroom. The speaker was a lawyer/lobbyist from Washington
who got off to a bad start by telling two dirty jokes, both of which bombed.
The crowd was all-white, all-male, a regular fraternity, but not in the mood
for tasteless jokes. The presentation quickly went from bad humor to boredom.
However, at least for Clay, the materials were somewhat interesting and
mildly informative; he knew very little about class actions so everything was
new. At
ten, he had to choose between a panel discussion on the latest in Skinny Ben
developments and a presentation by a lawyer whose speciality was lead paint,
a topic that sounded rather dull to Clay, so he went with the former. The
room was full. Skinny Ben was the nickname of an infamous obesity pill that
had been prescribed for millions of patients. Its maker had pocketed billions
and had been poised to own the world when problems began developing in a
significant number of users. Heart problems, easily traceable to the drug.
Litigation exploded overnight and the company had no desire to go to trial.
Its pockets were deep and it began buying off the plaintiffs with huge
settlements. For the past three years, mass tort lawyers from all fifty
states had been scrambling to sign up Skinny Ben cases. Four lawyers sat at a table with a moderator and
faced the crowd. The seat next to Clay was empty until a feisty little lawyer
rushed in at the last moment and wedged himself between the rows. He unpacked
his briefcase—legal pads, seminar materials, two cell phones, and a pager.
When his command post was properly arranged and Clay had inched as far away
as possible, he whispered, "Good morning." "Morning," Clay whispered back, not at all
anxious to chat. He looked at the cell phones and wondered who, exactly,
might he want to call at 10 A.M. on a Saturday. "How many cases you got?" the lawyer
whispered again. An interesting question, and one Clay was certainly
not prepared to answer. He had just finished the Tarvan cases and was
plotting his Dyloft assault, but, at the moment, he had no cases whatsover.
But such an answer was quite insufficient in the current environment where
all numbers were huge and exaggerated. "Couple of dozen," he lied. The guy frowned, as if this was completely unacceptable,
and the conversation was iced, at least for a few minutes. One of the
panelists began talking and the entire room became still. His topic was the
financial report on Healthy Living, manufacturer of Skinny Bens. The company
had several divisions, most of which were profitable. The stock price had not
suffered. In fact, after each major settlement the stock held its own, proof
that investors knew the company had plenty of cash. "That's Patton French," the lawyer next to
him whispered. "Who's he?" Clay asked. "Hottest mass tort lawyer in the country. Three
hundred million in fees last year." "He's the luncheon speaker, isn't he?" "Right,
don't miss it." Mr. French explained, in excruciating detail, that
approximately three hundred thousand Skinny Ben cases had been settled for
about $7.5 billion. He, along with other experts, estimated that there were
maybe another hundred thousand cases out there worth somewhere between $2
billion and $3 billion. The company and its insurers had plenty of cash to cover
these lawsuits, and so it was up to those in the room to hustle on out there
and find the rest of the cases. This fired up the crowd. Clay had no desire to jump into the pit. He couldn't
get past the fact that the short, pudgy, pompous little jerk with the
microphone made $300 million in fees last year and was still so motivated to
earn even more. The discussion drifted into creative ways to attract new
clients. One panelist had made so much money that he had two doctors on his
payroll full-time to do nothing but go from town to town screening those
who'd taken Skinny Bens. Another had relied solely on television advertising,
a topic that interested Clay for a moment but soon dissolved into a sad
debate as to whether the lawyer should appear on television himself or hire
some washed-up actor. Oddly missing was any discussion about trial
strategies—expert witnesses, whistle-blowers, jury selections, medical
proof—the usual information lawyers exchanged at seminars. Clay was learning
that these cases seldom went to trial. Courtroom skills were not important.
It was all about hustling cases. And making huge fees. At various points
during the discussion, all four panelists and several of those tossing up
softball questions couldn't help but reveal that they had made millions in
recent settlements. Clay wanted to take another shower. At
eleven, the local Porsche dealer held a Bloody-Mary reception that was wildly
popular. Raw oysters and Bloody Marys and nonstop chatter about how many
cases one had. And how to get more. A thousand here, two thousand there.
Evidently, the popular tactic was to round up as many cases as possible, then
tag team with Patton French who'd be happy to include them in his own
personal class action in his backyard over in Mississippi, where the judges
and juries and verdicts always went his way and the manufacturer was
terrified to set foot. French worked the crowd like a Chicago ward boss. He spoke again at one, after a buffet lunch
featuring Cajun food and Dixie Beer. His cheeks were red, his tongue loose
and colorful. Without notes he launched into a brief history of the American
tort system and how crucial it was in protecting the masses from the greed
and corruption of big corporations that make dangerous products. And, while
he was at it, he didn't like insurance companies and banks and multinationals
and Republicans, either. Unbridled capitalism created the need for people
like those hardy souls in the Circle of Barristers, those down in the
trenches who were unafraid to attack big business on behalf of the working
people, the little people. At $300 million a year in fees, it was hard to
picture Patton French as an underdog. But he was playing to the crowd. Clay glanced
around and wondered, not for the first time, if he was the only sane one
there. Were these people so blinded by the money that they honestly believed
themselves to be defenders of the poor and the sick? Most of them owned jets! French's
war stories poured forth effortlessly. A $400 million class-action settlement
for a bad cholesterol drug. A billion for a diabetes drug that killed at
least a hundred patients. For faulty electrical wiring put in two hundred
thousand homes that caused fifteen hundred fires killing seventeen people and
burning another forty, $150 million. The lawyers hung on every word.
Sprinkled throughout were indications of where his money had gone. "That
cost 'em a new Gulfstream, ,, he cracked at one point and the crowd
actually applauded. Clay knew, after hanging around the Royal Sonesta for
less than twenty-four hours, that a Gulfstream was the finest of all personal
jets and a new one sold for about $45 million. If you enjoyed that excerpt, there’s three
hundred more pages like it in The King
of Torts. Read if you must. Steve Hopkins, February 28, 2003 |
|||
|
|
|||
|
ã 2003 Hopkins and Company, LLC The
recommendation rating for this book appeared in the March 2003
issue of Executive
Times URL
for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
King of Torts.htm For
Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins
& Company, LLC • 723 North Kenilworth Avenue • Oak Park, IL 60302 E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
|||
