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the Chinese, Venezuelan, and Russian oil companies were at the defense counsel’s table. To their right, near the empty jury box, sat the Plaintiffs’ Liaison Committee—six men and one woman, seven distinguished members of the plaintiffs’ bar—and the not-so-distinguished Freddy Foman. Each had muscled his or her way to the forefront in the race to speak on behalf of all those who had filed lawsuits against the oil companies for property damage and loss of business. Jack had declined the invitation to join them, instinct having told him to keep Bianca’s claim away from the pack of wolves. To Freddy’s chagrin, Jack attended the hearing only as an observer.
    “How many property claims you got?” asked the man beside Jack.
    The question only confirmed that there were few bona fide “spectators” in the courtroom. Dozens of lawyers had lost round one in the power struggle to serve on the Plaintiffs’ Liaison Committee, and they were crammed shoulder to shoulder in the fifteen rows of public seating along with Jack. A separate, reserved section of seating for the media was likewise filled beyond capacity. More members of the press had managed to plant themselves throughout the gallery between the elbows of lawyers. Jack was pretty sure that the guy next to him was a lawyer, not a reporter—but it wasn’t always easy to tell.
    “I’m just here to watch,” said Jack.
    “I picked up six hundred new clients this morning, including Big Palm Island Resort.”
    “Really? I heard that Freddy Foman has Big Palm.”
    “Freddy had Big Palm,” he said with a wink.
    The feeding frenzy had begun, triggering one thought for Jack: Thank God I stayed out of this.
    “All rise!”
    The crowd heeded the bailiff’s command, and a chorus of fading conversations and foot shuffling echoed through the courtroom as Chief Judge Sandy Carlyle took her seat at the bench. Carlyle was a transplanted lawyer from Manhattan who’d retired to Florida, nearly died of boredom in her condo, and so ran for one of Key West’s elected judgeships. With her typical “212” directness, she instructed everyone to take a seat and moved straight to the afternoon’s business.
    “I’ve read the briefs,” said the judge. “The most directly impacted defendant appears to be Petróleos de Venezuela, the state-owned Venezuelan company that was in charge of the drilling on the Scarborough 8. The parties seem to be in agreement that Petróleos currently has a supertanker full of oil at the Port Arthur Refinery in Texas. It’s my understanding that Petróleos seeks an order of this court that would prevent the plaintiffs from seizing any Venezuelan supertanker in U.S. waters until after there is a trial on the merits and a final judgment is entered in the plaintiffs’ favor. Is that a fair summation, counsel?”
    A distinguished Latin man with silver hair rose from his seat at the defense counsel’s table and buttoned his suit coat. Despite the relaxed Key West dress code, he was a walking advertisement for Savile Row.
    “Yes, that’s fair, Your Honor.”
    “And you are . . . ?”
    “Luis Candela on behalf of Petróleos de Venezuela.”
    Jack knew the name. Candela was a past president of the American Bar Association, the first Hispanic ever so elected. His Washington law firm specialized in mineral rights in Central and South America. He spoke with all the confidence of an authority on the subject.
    “As the court is well aware, assets can be frozen before trial only in very limited circumstances, such as where the defendant is hiding assets in order to make himself judgment-proof. In this case, there is absolutely no danger that Petróleos will hide its supertankers. My client has long-term oil-supply contracts with refineries in the United States. It is absolutely critical to keep all of those supertankers moving freely in and out of U.S. ports to fulfill those contracts.”
    “That’s a compelling point,” said the judge.
    “It’s