Free The King of Torts by John Grisham Page A

changing. Fewer laughs. More senseless spats. More influence from her family.
    “I don’t like the West Coast,” she said, finally.
    “Then pick a spot,” Clay said, finishing the adventure. Her spot had been chosen for her, and she wasn’t getting too far from Mommy and Daddy.
    Whatever she had brought to the meeting finally had to be said. A long pull on the drink, then she leaned forward and stared him directly in the eyes. “Clay, I really need a break.”
    “Make it easy on yourself, Rebecca. We’ll do whatever you want.”
    “Thank you.”
    “How long a break?”
    “I’m not negotiating, Clay.”
    “A month?”
    “Longer than that.”
    “No, I won’t agree to it. Let’s go thirty days without a phone call, okay? Today is the seventh of May. Let’s meet here on June the sixth, right here at this very table, and we’ll talk about an extension.”
    “An extension?”
    “Call it whatever you want.”
    “Thank you. I’m calling it a breakup, Clay. The big bang. Splitsville. You go your way, I go mine. We’ll chat in a month, but I don’t expect a change. Things haven’t changed much in the past year.”
    “If I’d said yes to that awful job in Richmond, would we be doing this split thing?”
    “Probably not.”
    “Does that mean something other than no?”
    “No.”
    “So, it was all a setup, wasn’t it? The job, the ultimatum? Last night was just what I thought it was, an ambush. Take this job, boy, or else.”
    She would not deny it. Instead, she said, “Clay, I’m tired of fighting, okay? Don’t call me for thirty days.”
    She grabbed her purse and jumped to her feet. On the way out of the booth, she somehow managed to plant a dry and meaningless kiss near his right temple, but he did not acknowledge it. He did not watch her leave.
    She did not look back.

    C HAPTER 8   
    Clay’s apartment was in an aging complex in Arlington. When he’d leased it four years earlier he had never heard of BVH Group. Later, he would learn that the company had built the place in the early eighties in one of Bennett’s first ventures. The venture went bankrupt, the complex got bought and sold several times, and none of Clay’s rent went to Mr. Van Horn. In fact, no member of that family knew Clay was living in something they’d built. Not even Rebecca.
    He shared a two-bedroom unit with Jonah, an old pal from law school who’d flunked the bar exam four times before passing it and now sold computers. He sold them part-time and still earned more money than Clay, a fact that was always just under the surface.
    The morning after the breakup, Clay fetched the
Post
from outside his door and settled down at the kitchen table with the first cup of coffee. As always, hewent straight to the financial page for a quick and rewarding perusal of the dismal performance of BVHG. The stock barely traded and the few misguided investors who owned it were now willing to unload it for a mere $0.75 a share.
    Who was the loser here?
    There was not a single word about Rebecca’s crucial subcommittee hearings.
    When he was finished with his little witch hunts, he went to the sports section and told himself it was time to forget the Van Horns. All of them.
    At twenty minutes after seven, a time when he was usually eating a bowl of cereal, the phone rang. He smiled and thought, It’s her. Back already.
    No one else would call so early. No one except the boyfriend or husband of whatever lady might be upstairs sleeping off a hangover with Jonah. Clay had taken several such calls over the years. Jonah adored women, especially those already committed to someone else. They were more challenging, he said.
    But it wasn’t Rebecca and it wasn’t a boyfriend or a husband.
    “Mr. Clay Carter,” a strange male voice said.
    “Speaking.”
    “Mr. Carter, my name is Max Pace. I’m a recruiter for law firms in Washington and New York. Your name has caught our attention, and I have two very attractive positions that might