The King of Tortsby John Grisham
"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.… See more details below
"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 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.
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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."
"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 nameRamón Pumphreyto 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?"
"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 dodefend 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 Courthousethe 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 blackjeans, 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.
IN A CITY of 76,000 lawyers, many of them clustered in megafirms within rifle shot of the U.S. Capitolrich and powerful firms where the brightest associates were given obscene signing bonuses and the dullest ex-Congressmen were given lucrative lobbying deals and the hottest litigators came with their own agentsthe Office of the Public Defender was far down in the minor leagues. Low A.
Some OPD lawyers were zealously committed to defending the poor and oppressed, and for them the job was not a stepping-stone to another career. Regardless of how little they earned or how tight their budgets were, they thrived on the lonely independence of their work and the satisfaction of protecting the underdog.
Other PDs told themselves that the job was transitory, just the nitty-gritty training they needed to get launched into more promising careers. Learn the ropes the hard way, get your hands dirty, see and do things no big-firm associate would ever get near, and someday some firm with real vision will reward the effort. Unlimited trial experience, a vast knowledge of the judges and the clerks and the cops, workload management, skills in handling the most difficult of clientsthese were just a few of the advantages PDs had to offer after only a few years on the job.
OPD had eighty lawyers, all working in two cramped and suffocating floors of the District of Columbia Public Services Building, a pale, square, concrete structure known as The Cube, on Mass Avenue near Thomas Circle. There were about forty low paid secretaries and three dozen paralegals scattered through the maze of cubbyhole offices. The Director was a woman named Glenda who spent most of her time locked in her office because she felt safe in there.
The beginning salary for an OPD lawyer was $36,000. Raises were minuscule and slow in coming. The most senior lawyer, a frazzled old man of forty-three, earned $57,600 and had been threatening to quit for nineteen years. The workloads were staggering because the city was losing its own war on crime. The supply of indigent criminals was endless. Every year for the past eight Glenda had submitted a budget requesting ten more lawyers and a dozen more paralegals. In each of the last four budgets she had received less money than the year before. Her quandary at the moment was which paralegals to terminate and which lawyers to force into part-time work.
Like most of the other PDs, Clay Carter had not entered law school with the plan of a career, or even a brief stint, defending indigent criminals. No way. Back when Clay was in college and then law school at Georgetown his father had a firm in D.C. Clay had worked there part-time for years, and had his own office. The dreams had been boundless back then, father and son litigating together as the money poured in.
But the firm collapsed during Clay's last year of law school, and his father left town. That was another story. Clay became a public defender because there were no other last-second jobs to grab.
It took him three years to jockey and connive his way into getting his own office, not one shared with another lawyer or paralegal. About the size of a modest suburban utility closet, it had no windows and a desk that consumed half the floor space. His office in his father's old firm had been four times larger with views of the Washington Monument, and though he tried to forget those views he couldn't erase them from his memory. Five years later, he still sat at his desk at times and stared at the walls, which seemed to get closer each month, and asked himself how, exactly, did he fall from one office to the other?
He tossed the Tequila Watson file on his very clean and very neat desk and took off his jacket. It would have been easy, in the midst of such dismal surroundings, to let the place go, to let the files and papers pile up, to clutter his office and blame it on being overworked and understaffed. But his father had believed that an organized desk was a sign of an organized mind. If you couldn't find something in thirty seconds, you were losing money, his father always said. Return phone calls immediately was another rule Clay had been taught to obey.
So he was fastidious about his desk and office, much to the amusement of his harried colleagues. His Georgetown Law School diploma hung in a handsome frame in the center of a wall. For the first two years at OPD he had refused to display the diploma for fear that the other lawyers would wonder why someone from Georgetown was working for minimum wages. For the experience, he told himself, I'm here for the experience. A trial every monthtough trials against tough prosecutors in front of tough juries. For the down-in-the-gutter, bare-knuckle training that no big firm could provide. The money would come later, when he was a battle-hardened litigator at a very young age.
He stared at the thin Watson file in the center of his desk and wondered how he might unload it on someone else. He was tired of the tough cases and the superb training and all the other crap that he put up with as an underpaid PD.
There were six pink phone message slips on his desk; five related to business, one from Rebecca, his longtime girlfriend. He called her first.
"I'm very busy," she informed him after the required initial pleasantries.
"You called me," Clay said.
"Yes, I can only talk a minute or so." Rebecca worked as an assistant to a low-ranking Congressman who was the chairman of some useless subcommittee. But because he was the chairman he had an additional office he was required to staff with people like Rebecca who was in a frenzy all day preparing for the next round of hearings that no one would attend. Her father had pulled strings to get her the job.
"I'm kinda swamped too," Clay said. "Just picked up another murder case." He managed to add a measure of pride to this, as if he were honored to be the attorney for Tequila Watson.
It was a game they played: Who was the busiest? Who was the most important? Who worked the hardest? Who had the most pressure?
"Tomorrow is my mother's birthday," she said, pausing slightly as if Clay was supposed to know this. He did not. He cared not. He didn't like her mother. "They've invited us to dinner at the club."
A bad day just got worse. The only response he could possibly give was, "Sure." And a quick one at that.
"Around seven. Coat and tie."
"Of course." I'd rather have dinner with Tequila Watson at the jail, he thought to himself.
"I gotta run," she said. "See you then. Love you."
It was a typical conversation between the two, just a few quick lines before rushing off to save the world. He looked at her photo on his desk. Their romance came with enough complications to sink ten marriages. His father had once sued her father, and who won and who lost would never be clear. Her family claimed origins in old Alexandria society; he'd been an Army brat. They were right-wing Republicans, he was not. Her father was known as Bennett the Bulldozer for his relentless slash-and-burn development in the Northern Virginia suburbs around D.C. Clay hated the sprawl of Northern Virginia and quietly paid his dues to two environmental groups fighting the developers. Her mother was an aggressive social climber who wanted her two daughters to marry serious money. Clay had not seen his mother in eleven years. He had no social ambitions whatsoever. He had no money.
For almost four years, the romance had survived a monthly brawl, the majority of them engineered by her mother. It clung to life by love and lust and a determination to succeed regardless of the odds against it. But Clay sensed a fatigue on Rebecca's part, a creeping weariness brought on by age and constant family pressure. She was twenty-eight. She did not want a career. She wanted a husband and a family and long days spent at the country club spoiling the children, playing tennis, doing lunch with her mother.
Paulette Tullos appeared from thin air and startled him. "Got nailed, didn't you?" she said with a smirk. "A new murder case."
"You were there?" Clay asked.
"Saw it all. Saw it coming, saw it happen, couldn't save you, pal."
"Thanks. I owe you one."
He would have offered her a seat, but there were no others in his office. There was no room for chairs and besides they were not needed because all of his clients were in jail. Sitting and chatting were not part of the daily routine at OPD.
"What are my chances of getting rid of it?" he said.
"Slim to impossible. Who you gonna dump it on?"
"I was thinking of you."
"Sorry. I got two murder cases already. Glenda won't move it for you."
Paulette was his closest friend inside the OPD. A product of a rough section of the city, she had scratched her way through college and law school at night and had seemed destined for the middle classes until she met an older Greek gentleman with a fondness for young black women. He married her and set her up comfortably in North West Washington, then eventually returned to Europe, where he preferred to live. Paulette suspected he had a wife or two over there, but she wasn't particularly concerned about it. She was well-off and seldom alone. After ten years, the arrangement was working fine.
"I heard the prosecutors talking," she said. "Another street killing, but questionable motive."
"Not exactly the first one in the history of D.C."
"But no apparent motive."
"There's always a motivecash, drugs, sex, a new pair of Nikes."
"But the kid was pretty tame, no history of violence?"
"First impressions are seldom true, Paulette, you know that."
"Jermaine got one very similar two days ago. No apparent motive."
"I hadn't heard."
"You might try him. He's new and ambitious and, who knows, you might dump it on him."
"I'll do it right now."
Jermaine wasn't in but Glenda's door, for some reason, was slightly open. Clay rapped it with his knuckles while walking through it. "Got a minute?" he said, knowing that Glenda hated sparing a minute with anyone on her staff. She did a passable job running the office, managing the caseloads, holding the budget together, and, most important, playing the politics at City Hall. But she did not like people. She preferred to do her work behind a locked door.
"Sure," she said abruptly, with no conviction whatsoever. It was clear she did not appreciate the intrusion, which was exactly the reception Clay had expected.
"I happened to be in the Criminal Division this morning at the wrong time, got nailed with a murder case, one I'd rather pass on. I just finished the Traxel case, which, as you know, lasted for almost three years. I need a break from murder. How about one of the younger guys?"
"You beggin' off, Mr. Carter?" she said, eyebrows arched.
"Absolutely. Load up the dope and burglaries for a few months. That's all I'm asking."
"And who do you suggest should handle the, uh, what's the case?"
"Tequila Watson. Who should get him, Mr. Carter?"
"I don't really care. I just need a break."
She leaned back in her chair, like some wise old chairman of the board, and began chewing on the end of a pen. "Don't we all, Mr. Carter? We'd all love a break, wouldn't we?"
"Yes or no?"
"We have eighty lawyers here, Mr. Carter, about half of whom are qualified to handle murder cases. Everybody has at least two. Move it if you can, but I'm not going to reassign it."
As he was leaving, Clay said, "I could sure use a raise if you wanted to work on it."
"Next year, Mr. Carter. Next year."
"And a paralegal."
The Tequila Watson file remained in the very neat and organized office of Jarrett Clay Carter II, Attorney-at-Law.
Excerpted from THE KING OF TORTS by John Grisham Copyright © 2003 by Belfry Holdings, Inc. Excerpted by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Good read, but could have called the outcome early. Little too much of a sappy love story. Written well but the story line is pretty cookie cutter.
This book will make a great gift .It is one John Grisham's best.
I read this book so long ago that I had forgotten most of it so I decided to read it again. I thoroughly enjoyed it this time, too.
John Grisham always does such a good job of fleshing out characters. So much so that the protagonists have their faults and the antagonists seems plausible. Here, the main character, Clay, just didn't appeal to me at all. I seemed to be rooting against him. There was no one to root for. I know every book doesn't need those things but Grisham's novels usually do. Oh well, they all can't be gems.
The King of Torts is one of those odd sort of books were the protagonist and antagonist are really the same person. We have all heard this story, good rather innocent man gets a taste of money and power, becomes corrupt, then seeks some sort of salvation. I found the book to be good "mind candy" and I would recommend it. Though not as good as other Grisham novels it does serve the general purpose of entertainment. 3 out 5 stars.
This is the first Grishman's book I have read. When I first started reading the book, The King Of Torts by John Grisham, I thought it was going to be as boring and uninteresting book as there are so many, but I was wrong. John Grishman really get into the mood of writing this book. Clay Carter a lawyer that works at the Office of the Public Defender finally finds a way to get out of the cheap job he has, where he has work for more than five years, and finally form his own firm. He gets into a lot of trouble before getting what he wants. He takes the case of a young man charged with murder, which he assumes is just another random street killing. As he explores the history of Tequila, his client, he meets Max Pace, a man who reveals a hidden truth about a drug company that has been making a bad drug called Tarvan. Max offers Clay to help him silence the victims that had being use this drug paying them five million dollars. Clay takes the risk and trust Max. Max gave Clay fifteen million dollars for helping him silence the people. Later Max gives Clay more cases and helps him get his own firm. Clay turn into a successful tort lawyer in a short period of time. Clay soon finds himself rich and famous as the ¿King of Torts.¿ Later he starts to have some problems with the FBI and some of his cases were lost. He now he finds himself bankruptcy. As you read the novel you will find so many interesting things. I really recommend this book.
Successful writer John Grisham dazzles readers in his novel, The King of Torts, where he makes a moving argument about how greed is, once again, man¿s tragedy. We¿re captured in the average life of thirty two year old Clay Carter, a lawyer providing free legal counsel to impecunious defendants at the Office of the Public Defender where he has worked for a consecutive five years, and dreams of one day working in a real firm. He reluctantly takes the case of a young man charged with murder, which he assumes is just another random street killing. As explores the history of his client, however, Clay meets Max Pace, a man who reveals a hidden truth about a giant pharmaceutical company that has been testing anti-addiction medication on drug addicts. Even though the drug showed hopeful results, a small percentage of the users turned homicidal including Clay¿s client. Max offers Clay a deal: to help silence the victim¿s families with five million dollar settlements given by Max¿s employer and if the job is done successfully, Clay would receive fifteen million dollars. Tantalized by the offer of a new future, Clay agrees thinking he does not have much to lose. The job is a complete success and Clay begins his own firm. As time progresses, Pace provides new information and new cases helping Clay turn into a successful tort lawyer in a short period of time. Clay soon finds himself rich and famous as the ¿King of Torts.¿ Tort lawyers are attorneys that file large class action suits that bring massive payouts from corporations however, very little money goes to the plaintiffs but huge amounts go to the lawyers who represent them. Grisham depicts tort lawyers as vultures interested only in increasing personal fortunes as they drive corporations into bankruptcy. As you get deeper into the novel, you tumble down the spiral of greed, financial woes, and looming disaster, tempting you to read until the bitter end.
I was in ottawa for vacation this past week and i just happened to pass a bookstore. I was choosing books when i happened to come across this book. It was fantastic!! I couldn't put it down if my life depended on it. I read it all in the bookstore and then brought it and re-read it. The plot and the story were all very well written. John Grisham is still the king of the courts.
Although I never got my law degree - and had to settle for my Master of Arts in Political Science and a Masters of Science in Hotel & Food Service Management - I have been obsessed with legal thrillers! Why? The degrees I received had enough 'pre-law' type courses to whet my appetite for the legal profession. KING OF TORTS takes on the hottest topic in the United States today - the law and the unbelievable amount of 'class action suits' and money to be made - much of it for lawyers; with clients expecting their fact share! YOU - believe it or not may PERSONALLY be confronted by a class action suit - sooner than you think ! A MUST READ *****+
Right up there with The Firm! I've read them all, and this one was FABULOUS! A true glimpse into the world of legal greed! I have no doubt this is the stuff that lawyers are made of, and the unsuspecting public is none the wiser. A wild ride Grisham! Keep em comin if they're all like this!
Awesome read, as usual I could not put it down. Love anything John Grisham writes.
Nothing much happened. Too much talking.
The King of Boredom John Grisham’s best seller book, The King of Torts, is about a lawyer named Clay Carter. Clay is assigned to defend a murderer named Tequila Watson, who was a drug addict. As his lawyer, Clay decides to investigate a rehabilitation center that Tequila was being treated in. The rehabilitation center was very secretive and Clay could tell that he wasn’t given the information he needed. The results of the investigation lead Clay down a path he thought he’d never go down. The case of Tequila Watson in the beginning of the book catches the readers’ attention almost instantly. However, as the readers follow Clay down the path he chooses, the story becomes less appealing. The plot line in the beginning is much more interesting than what became of the book later on. The first case given to Clay is a very thrilling case. The character of Tequila Watson is secretive, mysterious, and very quiet. His character will occasionally give small pieces of information. Nevertheless, it is usually not enough to satisfy the readers’ desire to know more. This keeps the readers wanting to know about him and what the outcome of his case will be. However, the storyline shifts and leaves this case completely unresolved with no further connections to it in the story. The readers become disappointed of the quick twist the story makes away from such a fascinating case. As the story shifts from Tequila’s case, its main topic focuses on bad or defective drugs. These drugs usually have side effects that affect a small number of people but can be very consequential. Throughout the book, there are three of these drugs. The process in which these drugs are dealt with is shown in the first drug and is repeated for each drug that comes afterwards. The readers’ knowledge of this process makes the story predictable for each of the drugs. The repetition and lack of diversity of the events surrounding only drugs becomes very boring. The middle part of this book is mainly about one drug and how Clay and other big lawyers are filing lawsuits against it on behalf of the patients with side effects from the drug. This part of the book includes most of the statistics. Statistics are used very often within the book making the readers feel lost and confused by the numbers and percentages. Keeping track of the statistics and which numbers belong to which character is the most confusing aspect of the story.The story loses the readers’ attention around this area of the story because there are no interesting or even unusual events that occur. Characters are another weak aspect of the book. They are not explained very thoroughly. An example of this is Clay’s character. His personality is the most important so that the readers understand how someone like him would resolve the issues he faces. There are also irrelevant characters. These have no important role within the story. Most of them appear in at the beginning of the story and leave in the middle without having any significance to the plot. The characters are not appealing to the readers. The character of Clay might be interesting in the beginning. However, turning into a greedy and selfish lawyer makes most readers dislike him. Therefore, the readers would not care if anything occurred to him. The one interesting character in this book that would have appealed to some readers is Tequila Watson. However, it is not fully developed either. A small but significant improvement that could have been done to this book is to add an exposition. A point that has been brought up many times is that most good books have an exposition to explain characters, setting, and the basics of the story. The book’s lack of exposition makes it difficult for the readers to understand the characters. To add on to the confusion of the readers, the book contains many phrases that are not explained, especially to readers who are not familiar with the world of lawyers and drugs. Therefore, an exposition would have introduced the readers into a world they do not live in. An introduction that would explain some of the characters, how lawyers live, and the setting could make the book much less confusing. The author chose the third person limited point of view to tell the story. This perspective is limited to only Clay’s point of view. Therefore, Clay’s point of view is the only view the readers receive which is mostly unsatisfying. If the perspective was changed to third person omniscient, then the readers could know more than Clay. This way the readers can react to the decisions he makes and how his decisions conflict with what he is unaware of. If the point of view were to be third person omniscient, there would be much dramatic irony in the story making the book more exciting. Overall, this book started out being interesting and exciting, but went on a different path and lost its appeal to its readers. Another issue is how predictable its topic of drugs is. An additional weak point is the confusion of the readers caused by statistical numbers. The underdevelopment of the characters is another aspect. An improvement that could have been made to help this book be better presented is adding an exposition to introduce the setting, the characters, and the plot. Changing the point of view of the story from third person limited to third person omniscient is another improvement that could have made the book more exciting. Due to this book’s underdevelopment of characters and its unappealing story, it does not seem to deserve its best seller award. E. Hassan, 14
John Grisham has yet again shown us his talent for writing. Love, monry, the law, and a complex plot will keep you reading until the lastbpage
A cautionary tale by the numbers. None of the characters is particularly interesting. Main character is unlikable so you don't care what happens to him. Written like a report with very little to no flourish. Grisham can and has done alot better.
Clay is greedy good book
This is one of his best. Good read. Hard to put the book down.