Free The King of Torts by John Grisham Page B

interest you. Could we have lunch today?”
    Completely speechless, Clay would remember later,in the shower, that the thought of a nice lunch was, oddly, the first thing that crossed his mind.
    “Uh, sure,” he managed to get out. Headhunters were part of the legal business, same as every other profession. But they rarely spent their time bottom-feeding in the Office of the Public Defender.
    “Good. Let’s meet in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, say, noon?”
    “Noon’s fine,” Clay said, his eyes focusing on a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Yes, this was real. It was not a dream.
    “Thanks, I’ll see you then. Mr. Carter, I promise it will be worth your time.”
    “Uh, sure.”
    Max Pace hung up quickly, and for a moment Clay held the receiver, looked at the dirty dishes, and wondered who from his law school class was behind this practical joke. Or could it be Bennett the Bulldozer getting one last bit of revenge?
    He had no phone number for Max Pace. He did not even have the presence of mind to get the name of his company.
    Nor did he have a clean suit. He owned two, both gray, one thick and one thin, both very old and well used. His trial wardrobe. Fortunately, OPD had no office dress code, so Clay usually wore khakis and a navy blazer. If he was going to court, he would put on a tie and take it off as soon as he returned to the office.
    In the shower, he decided that his attire did not matter. Max Pace knew where he worked and had a roughidea of how little he earned. If Clay showed up for the interview in frayed khakis, then he could demand more money.
    Sitting in traffic on the Arlington Memorial Bridge, he decided it was his father. The old guy had been banished from D.C. but still had contacts. He’d finally hit the right button, called in one last favor, found his son a decent job. When Jarrett Carter’s high-profile legal career ended in a long and colorful flameout, he pushed his son toward the Office of the Public Defender. Now that apprenticeship was over. Five years in the trenches, and it was time for a real job.
    What kinds of firms would be looking for him? He was intrigued by the mystery. His father hated the large corporate and lobbying outfits that were packed along Connecticut and Massachusetts Avenues. And he had no use for the small-timers who advertised on buses and billboards and clogged up the system with frivolous cases. Jarrett’s old firm had ten lawyers, ten courtroom brawlers who won verdicts and were in demand.
    “That’s where I’m headed,” Clay mumbled to himself as he glanced at the Potomac River beneath him.
    __________
    AFTER SUFFERING through the most unproductive morning of his career, Clay left at eleven-thirty and took his time driving to the Willard, now officially known as the Willard Inter-Continental Hotel. He was immediately met in the lobby by a muscled young man who looked vaguely familiar. “Mr. Pace is upstairs,” heexplained. “He’d like to meet with you up there, if that’s all right.” They were walking toward the elevators.
    “Sure,” Clay said. How he’d been recognized so easily he was not certain.
    They ignored each other on the ride up. They stepped onto the ninth floor and Clay’s escort knocked on the door of the Theodore Roosevelt Suite. It opened quickly and Max Pace said hello with a businesslike smile. He was in his mid-forties, dark wavy hair, dark mustache, dark everything. Black denim jeans, black T-shirt, black pointed-toe boots. Hollywood at the Willard. Not exactly the corporate look Clay had been expecting. As they shook hands he had the first hint that things were not what they seemed.
    With a quick glance, the bodyguard was sent away.
    “Thanks for coming,” Max said as they walked into an oval-shaped room laden with marble.
    “Sure.” Clay was absorbing the suite; luxurious leathers and fabrics, rooms branching off in all directions. “Nice place.”
    “It’s mine for a few more days. I thought we could eat up here,