The King of Torts by John Grisham Page B

He built a firm known for its bare-knuckle ways in the courtroom. Clay never doubted he would follow his father and spend his career in trials.
    The wheels came off when Clay was in college. There was an ugly divorce that cost Jarrett dearly. His firm began to split with, typically, all partners suing each other. Distracted, Jarrett went two years without winning a trial, and his reputation suffered greatly. He made his biggest mistake when he and his accountant began cooking the books—hiding income, overstating expenses. When they got caught, the accountant killed himself but Jarrett did not. He was devastated though, and prison looked likely. Luckily, an old pal from lawschool was the U.S. Attorney in charge of the prosecution.
    The details of their agreement would forever remain a dark secret. There was never an indictment, just an unofficial deal whereby Jarrett quietly closed his office, surrendered his license to practice law, and left the country. He fled with nothing, though those close to the affair felt he’d stashed something off-shore. Clay had seen no indication of any such loot.
    So the great Jarrett Carter became a fishing boat captain in the Bahamas, which to some would sound like a wonderful life. Clay found him on the boat, a sixty-foot Wavedancer wedged into a slip in the crowded marina. Other charters were returning from a long day at sea. Sunburned fishermen were admiring their catches. Cameras were flashing. Bahamian deckhands scurried about unloading coolers of iced-down grouper and tuna. They hauled away bags of empty bottles and beer cans.
    Jarrett was on the bow with a water hose in one hand and a sponge in the other. Clay watched him for a moment, not wanting to interrupt a man at work. His father certainly looked the part of the expatriate on the run—barefoot with dark leathery skin, a gray Hemingway beard, silver chains around his neck, long-billed fishing cap, ancient white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps. If not for a slight beer belly, Jarrett would have looked quite fit.
    “Well, I’ll be damned!” he yelled when he saw his son.
    “Nice boat,” Clay said, stepping aboard. There wasa firm handshake, but nothing more. Jarrett was not the affectionate type, at least not with his son. Several former secretaries had told different stories. He smelled of dried perspiration, salt water, stale beer—a long day at sea. His shorts and white shirt were dirty.
    “Yeah, owned by a doctor in Boca. You’re looking good.”
    “You too.”
    “I’m healthy, that’s all that matters. Grab a beer.” Jarrett pointed to a cooler on the deck.
    They popped tops and sat in the canvas chairs while a group of fishermen staggered along the pier. The boat rocked gently. “Busy day, huh?” Clay said.
    “We left at sunrise, had a father and his two sons, big strong boys, all of them serious weight lifters. From someplace in New Jersey. I’ve never seen so many muscles on one boat. They were yanking hundred-pound sailfish out of the ocean like they were trout.”
    Two women in their forties walked by, carrying small backpacks and fishing supplies. They had the same weary, sunburned look as all other fishermen. One was a little heavy, the other was not, but Jarrett observed them equally until they were out of sight. His gawking was almost embarrassing.
    “Do you still have your condo?” Clay asked. The condo he’d seen four years earlier had been a run-down two-room apartment on the back side of Marsh Harbor.
    “Yeah, but I live on the boat now. The owner doesn’t come over much, so I just stay here. There’s a sofa in the cabin for you.”
    “You live on this boat?”
    “Sure, it’s air-conditioned, plenty of room. It’s just me, you know, most of the time.”
    They sipped beer and watched another group of fishermen stumble by.
    “I’ve got a charter tomorrow,” Jarrett said. “You along for the ride?”
    “What else would I do around here?”
    “Got some clowns from