The King of Torts: A Novel by John Grisham (Epub)

Description

The Office of the Public Defender is not known as a training ground for bright young litigators. Clay Carter has been there too long and, like most of his colleagues, dreams of a better job in a real firm. When he reluctantly takes the case of a man charged with a random street killing, he assumes it is just another of the many senseless murders that hit D.C. every week.

As he digs into the background of his client, Clay stumbles on a conspiracy too horrible to believe. He suddenly finds himself in the middle of a complex case against one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world and looking at the kind of enormous settlement that would totally change his life—that would make him, almost overnight, the legal profession’s newest king of torts.

User’s Reviews

Review “Rousing . . . Another pedal-to-the-metal crowd-pleaser.”—People“Offers everything one expects from Grisham . . . delivers with a vengeance.”—The Seattle Times“Satisfying . . . a lot of fun . . . When you finish it, you’re ready to dash on to the next Grisham.”—Entertainment Weekly “A thrill ride of twists and turns.”—The Philadelphia InquirerFrom the Paperback edition. From AudioFile Public Defender Clay Carter arrives in court just in time to receive another hopeless murder case. His bad luck and dead-end career disappear as he stumbles upon evidence that thrusts him into the opulent world of class-action lawsuits. Clay’s initial success earns him the title “King of Torts.” Quickly, the glamour fades for both the character and the listener. Despite reader Dennis Boutsikaris’s strong and clear narration, the novel drags along to an unsatisfactory conclusion. Boutsikaris applies a fitting characterization to European model Ridley, Clay’s new trophy girlfriend, who symbolizes all the pitfalls facing the nouveau riche. Regrettably, his fine reading cannot transform a dull, predictable story into an intriguing, suspenseful tale. J.J.B. © AudioFile 2003, Portland, Maine– Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine –This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From the Inside Flap The office of the public defender is not known as a training ground for bright young litigators. Clay Carter has been there too long and, like most of his colleagues, dreams of a better job in a real firm. When he reluctantly takes the case of a young man charged with a random street killing, he assumes it is just another of the many senseless murders that hit D.C. every week.As he digs into the background of his client, Clay stumbles on a conspiracy too horrible to believe. He suddenly finds himself in the middle of a complex case against one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world, looking at the kind of enormous settlement that would totally change his life?that would make him, almost overnight, the legal profession?s newest king of torts…From the Hardcover edition. –This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From the Back Cover The office of the public defender is not known as a training ground for bright young litigators. Clay Carter has been there too long and, like most of his colleagues, dreams of a better job in a real firm. When he reluctantly takes the case of a young man charged with a random street killing, he assumes it is just another of the many senseless murders that hit D.C. every week. As he digs into the background of his client, Clay stumbles on a conspiracy too horrible to believe. He suddenly finds himself in the middle of a complex case against one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world, looking at the kind of enormous settlement that would totally change his life–that would make him, almost overnight, the legal profession’s newest king of torts… “From the Hardcover edition. –This text refers to the paperback edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. THE SHOTS THAT FIRED the bullets that entered Pumpkin’s head were heard by no less than eight people. Three instinctively closed their windows, checked their door locks, and withdrew to the safety, or at least the seclusion, of their small apartments. Two others, each with experience in such matters, ran from the vicinity as fast if not faster than the gunman himself. Another, the neighborhood recycling fanatic, was digging through some garbage in search of aluminum cans when he heard the sharp sounds of the daily skirmish, very nearby. He jumped behind a pile of cardboard boxes until the shelling stopped, then eased into the alley where he saw what was left of Pumpkin.And two saw almost everything. They were sitting on plastic milk crates, at the corner of Georgia and Lamont in front of a liquor store, partially hidden by a parked car so that the gunman, who glanced around briefly before following Pumpkin into the alley, didn’t see them. Both would tell the police that they saw the boy with the gun reach into his pocket and pull it out; they saw the gun for sure, a small black pistol. A second later they heard the shots, though they did not actually see Pumpkin take them in the head. Another second, and the boy with the gun darted from the alley and, for some reason, ran straight in their direction. He ran bent at the waist, like a scared dog, guilty as hell. He wore red-and-yellow basketball shoes that seemed five sizes too big and slapped the pavement as he made his getaway.When he ran by them he was still holding the gun, probably a .38, and he flinched just for a instant when he saw them and realized they had seen too much. For one terrifying second, he seemed to raise the gun as if to eliminate the witnesses, both of whom managed to flip backward from their plastic milk crates and scramble off in a mad flurry of arms and legs. Then he was gone.One of them opened the door to the liquor store and yelled for someone to call the police, there had been a shooting.Thirty minutes later, the police received a call that a young man matching the description of the one who had wasted Pumpkin had been seen twice on Ninth Street carrying a gun in open view and acting stranger than most of the people on Ninth. He had tried to lure at least one person into an abandoned lot, but the intended victim had escaped and reported the incident.The police found their man an hour later. His name was Tequila Watson, black male, age twenty, with the usual drug-related police record. No family to speak of. No address. The last place he’d been sleeping was a rehab unit on W Street. He’d managed to ditch the gun somewhere, and if he’d robbed Pumpkin then he’d also thrown away the cash or drugs or whatever the booty was. His pockets were clean, as were his eyes. The cops were certain Tequila was not under the influence of anything when he was arrested. A quick and rough interrogation took place on the street, then he was handcuffed and shoved into the rear seat of a D.C. police car.They drove him back to Lamont Street, where they arranged an impromptu encounter with the two witnesses. Tequila was led into the alley where he’d left Pumpkin. “Ever been here before?” a cop asked.Tequila said nothing, just gawked at the puddle of fresh blood on the dirty concrete. The two witnesses were eased into the alley, then led quietly to a spot near Tequila.”That’s him,” both said at the same time.”He’s wearing the same clothes, same basketball shoes, everything but the gun.””That’s him.””No doubt about it.”Tequila was shoved into the car once again and taken to jail. He was booked for murder and locked away with no immediate chance of bail. Whether through experience or just fear, Tequila never said a word to the cops as they pried and cajoled and even threatened. Nothing incriminating, nothing helpful. No indication of why he would murder Pumpkin. No clue as to their history, if one existed at all. A veteran detective made a brief note in the file that the killing appeared a bit more random than was customary.No phone call was requested. No mention of a lawyer or a bail bondsman. Tequila seemed dazed but content to sit in a crowded cell and stare at the floor.PUMPKIN HAD NO TRACEABLE father but his mother worked as a security guard in the basement of a large office building on New York Avenue. It took three hours for the police to determine her son’s real name–Ram-n Pumphrey–to locate his address, and to find a neighbor willing to tell them if he had a mother.Adelfa Pumphrey was sitting behind a desk just inside the basement entrance, supposedly watching a bank of monitors. She was a large thick woman in a tight khaki uniform, a gun on her waist, a look of complete disinterest on her face. The cops who approached her had done so a hundred times. They broke the news, then found her supervisor.In a city where young people killed each other every day, the slaughter had thickened skins and hardened hearts, and every mother knew many others who’d lost their children. Each loss brought death a step closer, and every mother knew that any day could be the last. The mothers had watched the others survive the horror. As Adelfa Pumphrey sat at her desk with her face in her hands, she thought of her son and his lifeless body lying somewhere in the city at that moment, being inspected by strangers.She swore revenge on whoever killed him.She cursed his father for abandoning the child.She cried for her baby.And she knew she would survive. Somehow, she would survive.ADELFA WENT TO COURT to watch the arraignment. The police told her the punk who’d killed her son was scheduled to make his first appearance, a quick and routine matter in which he would plead not guilty and ask for a lawyer. She was in the back row with her brother on one side and a neighbor on the other, her eyes leaking tears into a damp handkerchief. She wanted to see the boy. She also wanted to ask him why, but she knew she would never get the chance.They herded the criminals through like cattle at an auction. All were black, all wore orange coveralls and handcuffs, all were young. Such waste.In addition to his handcuffs, Tequila was adorned with wrist and ankle chains since his crime was especially violent, though he looked fairly harmless when he was shuffled into the courtroom with the next wave of offenders. He glanced around quickly at the crowd to see if he recognized anyone, to see if just maybe someone was out there for him. He was seated in a row of chairs, and for good measure one of the armed bailiffs leaned down and said, “That boy you killed. That’s his mother back there in the blue dress.”With his head low, Tequila slowly turned and looked directly into the wet and puffy eyes of Pumpkin’s mother, but only for a second. Adelfa stared at the skinny boy in the oversized coveralls and wondered where his mother was and how she’d raised him and if he had a father, and, most important, how and why his path had crossed that of her boy’s. The two were about the same age as the rest of them, late teens or early twenties. The cops had told her that it appeared, at least initially, that drugs were not involved in the killing. But she knew better. Drugs were involved in every layer of street life. Adelfa knew it all too well. Pumpkin had used pot and crack and he’d been arrested once, for simple possession, but he had never been violent. The cops were saying it looked like a random killing. All street killings were random, her brother had said, but they all had a reason.On one side of the courtroom was a table around which the authorities gathered. The cops whispered to the prosecutors, who flipped through files and reports and tried valiantly to keep the paperwork ahead of the criminals. On the other side was a table where the defense lawyers came and went as the assembly line sputtered along. Drug charges were rattled off by the Judge, an armed robbery, some vague sexual attack, more drugs, lots of parole violations. When their names were called, the defendants were led forward to the bench, where they stood in silence. Paperwork was shuffled, then they were hauled off again, back to jail.”Tequila Watson,” a bailiff announced.He was helped to his feet by another bailiff. He stutter-stepped forward, chains rattling.”Mr. Watson, you are charged with murder,” the Judge announced loudly. “How old are you?””Twenty,” Tequila said, looking down.The murder charge had echoed through the courtroom and brought a temporary stillness. The other criminals in orange looked on with admiration. The lawyers and cops were curious.”Can you afford a lawyer?””No.””Didn’t think so,” the Judge mumbled and glanced at the defense table. The fertile fields of the D.C. Superior Court Criminal Division, Felony Branch, were worked on a daily basis by the Office of the Public Defender, the safety net for all indigent defendants. Seventy percent of the docket was handled by court-appointed counsel, and at any time there were usually half a dozen PDs milling around in cheap suits and battered loafers with files sticking out of their briefcases. At that precise moment, however, only one PD was present, the Honorable Clay Carter II, who had stopped by to check on two much lesser felonies, and now found himself all alone and wanting to bolt from the courtroom. He glanced to his right and to his left and realized that His Honor was looking at him. Where had all the other PDs gone?A week earlier, Mr. Carter had finished a murder case, one that had lasted for almost three years and had finally been closed with his client being sent away to a prison from which he would never leave, at least not officially. Clay Carter was quite happy his client was now locked up, and he was relieved that he, at that moment, had no murder files on his desk.That, evidently, was about to change.”Mr. Carter?” the Judge said. It was not an order, but an invitation to step forward to do what every PD was expected to do–defend the indigent, regardless of the case. Mr. Carter could not show weakness, especially with the cops and prosecutors watching. He swallowed hard, refused to flinch, and walked to the bench as if he just might demand a jury trial right there and then. He took the file from the Judge, quickly skimmed its rather thin contents while ignoring the pleading look of Tequila Watson, then said, “We’ll enter a plea of not guilty, Your Honor.””Thank you, Mr. Carter. And we’ll show you as counsel of record?””For now, yes.” Mr. Carter was already plotting excuses to unload this case on someone else at OPD.”Very well. Thank you,” the Judge said, already reaching for the next file.Lawyer and client huddled at the defense table for a few minutes. Carter took as much information as Tequila was willing to give, which was very little. He promised to stop by the jail the next day for a longer interview. As they whispered, the table was suddenly crowded with young lawyers from the PD’s office, colleagues of Carter’s who seemed to materialize from nowhere.Was this a setup? Carter asked himself. Had they disappeared knowing a murder defendant was in the room? In the past five years, he’d pulled such stunts himself. Ducking the nasty ones was an art form at OPD.He grabbed his briefcase and hurried away, down the center aisle, past rows of worried relatives, past Adelfa Pumphrey and her little support group, into the hallway crammed with many more criminals and their mommas and girlfriends and lawyers. There were those in OPD who swore they lived for the chaos of the H. Carl Moultrie Courthouse–the pressure of trials, the hint of danger from people sharing the same space with so many violent men, the painful conflict between victims and their assailants, the hopelessly overcrowded dockets, the calling to protect the poor and ensure fair treatment by the cops and the system.If Clay Carter had ever been attracted to a career in OPD, he could not now remember why. In one week the fifth anniversary of his employment there would come and go, without celebration, and, hopefully, without anyone knowing it. Clay was burned out at the age of thirty-one, stuck in an office he was ashamed to show his friends, looking for an exit with no place to go, and now saddled with another senseless murder case that was growing heavier by the minute.In the elevator he cursed himself for getting nailed with a murder. It was a rookie’s mistake; he’d been around much too long to step into the trap, especially one set on such familiar turf. I’m quitting, he promised himself; the same vow he had uttered almost every day for the past year.There were two others in the elevator. One was a court clerk of some variety, with her arms full of files. The other was a fortyish gentleman dressed in designer black–jeans, T-shirt, jacket, alligator boots. He held a newspaper and appeared to be reading it through small glasses perched on the tip of his rather long and elegant nose; in fact, he was studying Clay, who was oblivious. Why would someone pay any attention to anyone else on this elevator in this building?If Clay Carter had been alert instead of brooding, he would have noticed that the gentleman was too well dressed to be a defendant, but too casual to be a lawyer. He carried nothing but a newspaper, which was somewhat odd because the H. Carl Moultrie Courthouse was not known as a place for reading. He did not appear to be a judge, a clerk, a victim, or a defendant, but Clay never noticed him. –This text refers to the paperback edition.

Reviews from Amazon users, collected at the time the book is getting published on UniedVRG. It can be related to shiping or paper quality instead of the book content:

⭐ Very few authors could take the professional boring legal world and use it for creating thrilling fiction. Grisham does it with every book that he writes. Not just that he has the talent to imagine and structure such vivid, authentic and intriguing plots, but he does it in such a tight and yet easy to understand language so that even the layman that hasn’t been to a court in his life would find it clear and compelling. This is perhaps the 10th’ Grisham book I’ve read and surely there would be many more. All of them were Exceptionally good. This book was a bit troubling from the point were the rapid success was starting to crumble. I was so concerned about the main character’s inevitable demise to the point that I had to urge myself to keep reading. Nevertheless, I read the second half of the book in one run. Just couldn’t stop reading. And though the second half of the book deals with the total distruction of the hero’s business and success, the books ends up with an encouraging and comforting line, so you wrap the book with a good feeling after all.

⭐ OK, it’s a tad formulaic and predictable–maybe a “4-minus”–but i still love the way Grisham describes his characters and builds a story arc. It’s actually the reverse situation from the main characters of several of his other novels, who are often overworked, highly paid high-powered law firm types who leave and become small-town lawyers. In this case it’s an overworked, underpaid public defender who leaves and becomes, well, The King of Torts. Not perfect, but the guy can still tell a story.

⭐ I have read a number of Grisham’s books and enjoy the character development and intriguing plots. While King of Torts was interesting and a good read, it had a fairly predictable plot line. I had pretty good idea of how it was going to end by about the time I was half way done. So it became somewhat less interesting from there on in. I am reading another Grisham book now and was struck by how much more intriguing this one is at the same place in the story. Good read, not his best.

⭐ I think John Grisham is one of the best authors ever and most of his books are well-plotted and supremely clever, but this one reads a bit like an airy Mary Higgins-Clark novella. The “hero” isn’t exactly likeable either as he has dubious moral standards (ripping off sick people, driving a firm into foreclosure because he doesn’t want to reduce his legal fees etc.), but yet Grisham tries to make him out to be a nice guy, e.g. him still carrying the flame for his former lover (who’s not likeable either) and eschewing any money after he’d just lost it all anyway, him giving his former colleagues huge bonuses and so on. This book is more of a sermon on the evils of the American tort system and the love of money, but it still keeps you reading so that you can see him finally get his come-uppance.

⭐ Young, burned out public defender turns down corporate law position. But Clay listens to corrupt former lawyer named Max who promises a fortune in legal fees for doing little work but settling numerous tort claims involving a drug with serious side effects. He sets up legal office in D.C. with large staff and significant expenses. He is befriended by old successful mass tort claims expert French who convinces him to get a jet aircraft. Despite high office expenses, Clay still makes a fortune and receives substantial press as the new “King of Torts.” Max gives Clay the inside track on another bad drug and Clay makes another fortune. But he continues his spendthrift ways. He loses old girlfriend who marries another man. Clay finds an expensive bimbo and takes her everywhere. At this point, we are about 1/3 of the way through the book and you can guess exactly what is going to happen as the expenses continue to mount, but the income levels off.

⭐ I liked the fact that Clay was conscious of both the speed and the greed of all the tort activities. He was overtaken by sudden wealth and the worldly benefits it provided, and the associates that he learned to aspire to. But he also remained loyal to his friends and loves.The book did go a bit too far developing the ease in selecting the target subjects that could become his victims, and his lack of understanding of how his greed was offset by pain and suffering on his arm-length clients.

⭐ National news coverage of the doctors’ campaign against tort reform is just beginning. Grisham shows a side of the tort battle where attorneys wage war against pharmaceutical companies. Since neither (attorneys or pharmaceutical companies) can escape public scorn, it feels a little like the bad guys fighting the bad guys. So, it’s a stretch to determine who you want to win! Grisham has an anti-hero, Clay Carver, in the role of legal eagle this time. We’re supposed to believe that he’s spent the better part of the last 4 years as a public defender, and in a relationship with a wealthy young woman whose parents are social climbers. You really can’t get any passion out of his role in the Public Defender’s office, nor out of his relationship. All this changes when he is offered the money of a lifetime ($15 million) to quietly settle as yet unknown claims of those who have suffered due to a risky drug. The offer comes from Max Pace – a shady character who plays “fireman” for a drug company and has access to all sorts of information unknown to the public. Shades of “The Firm”! Given that Clay realizes very early on the problems associated with this much money, and sees a demonstration of how successful tort lawyers spend and spend and never achieve what they seek in life, you would think he would not fall into that trap. But Grisham pushes him in with his eyes closed – even having him buy a Caribbean villa for his expensive mistress (with whom he has nothing in common) and a jet plane. Clay’s friends from the OPD that join him in the new work do what we expect HIM to do — take the early money and run. But he justs keeps his head in the sand and continues to burrow in, deeper and deeper. Thankfully, as in most Grisham novels, this does not go on for very long, as the book is brief, and the ending is predictable. I gave the book three stars, which is a star generous, because it held my interest, despite lack of plot and characterization. Grisham’s ploy of using fiction to make a political statement about issues affecting the legal profession is always entertaining. But if I were you, I’d wait for the paperback!

⭐ Not since The Firm had I torn through a Grisham book like I did with KOT and yet I finished feeling unsatisfied. There is no doubt that J.G. is the King of page turning action; however, one small plot twist at the end does not keep this book from being predictable.Would I have been excited about King of Torts as I was about The Firm, Pelican Brief or A Time to Kill if I had read this first, I think I would have. We have been spoiled by the freshness of his earlier books and let’s be honest, his latest works have been of the same quality yet are no longer fresh. It’s tough for Grisham to surprise us anymore because of the number of books he has written and how he has trained his readers to truly expect the “unbelievable,” the “unexpected,” and the customary trip to the Caribbean-do you think he has to travel there for background information all the time, must be nice!Is it just me or is Grisham just a little more didactic in this tome than in his previous works? I think he did an excellent job with the main character and you could see the greed and ethical conflict boiling below the surface (like father, like son) as J. Clay Carter II decided to plunge into the depths of mass tort law. Grisham does paint a vivid picture of the slide from “doing good” to “doing well” and character development has always been this author’s strength.In the end, this book is worth 4 or 5 hours of your time and even though you know where the book is going, you don’t mind it when you know it is Grisham taking you there.

⭐ An excellent read on life and decisions made by an attorney about making money. It is a fun book to read and gives you an idea about how mass lawsuits are settled and who really makes the money. I’m thinking this story isn’t over and will continue….

⭐ John Grisham is a master at the legal thriller. They can have a tendency to sound the same if you run through several of the books one after another because of the similar themes of law and things but they certainly have a fast flowing and dynamic pace.Grisham can draw the reader into the lives of his characters and have them rooting for a protagonist in a hurry.His strength in drawing in the reader is very rare and makes him at the top of the game.The King of Torts makes you root for a young lawyer who much like Icarus flies too close to the sun and is burned but manages to survive.

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