The Common Lawyer

by Mark Gimenez

  "No."

  "The capitol?"

  "No."

  "But it's the biggest one in the country."

  "No."

  "We can take a tour of downtown on those Segways. That'd be fun."

  "No."

  "Can we at least get hookers?"

  "No."

  — Andy spent the day following Sally Armstrong around La Jolla in a rented Audi.

  Sally was thirty-eight, attractive, married, and wealthy; she lived in a large house with a view of the Pacific Ocean. She had two children, a fifteen-year-old daughter who was perfectly healthy and a nineteen-year-old son who was a quadriplegic. When he was sixteen, Jimmy Armstrong had lost control of his brand new Mustang and wrapped it around a telephone pole. He would be in a wheelchair for life. But he already had the best care money could buy.

  He didn't need Russell Reeves' money.

  Andy drove along the boardwalk and saw blonde California girls skating in bikinis-in November. He stayed overnight at the Del Coronado Hotel and ate crab enchiladas. He walked along the beach and watched the sun set into the Pacific Ocean. He thought about sick kids. Seven out of eight. It made no sense.

  The next morning, Andy put on jeans and sneakers and took a cab to the airport. He called the Municipal Court back in Austin and told Judge Judith's clerk that he was out of town on business for Russell Reeves. The clerk readily agreed to postpone his six traffic ticket cases set for trial that Monday. Then he boarded a flight to Austin.

  While Andy Prescott's plane was over the Grand Canyon, Dr. Glenn Hall, Ph. D., walked into Russell Reeves' office in the Reeves Research Institute.

  "DNA matches," he said. "It's her."

  Andy's flight arrived at the Austin airport at three. He immediately called Russell Reeves; they agreed to meet at Andy's office. The black limo was already there when Andy arrived; but so was a crowd on the sidewalk in front of Ramon's shop. Andy paid the cabby and got out. He hurried over and pushed his way through the crowd and saw Floyd T. lying on the sidewalk.

  "Floyd T.!"

  Russell Reeves was kneeling next to him; Darrell was standing over him. Andy pushed Darrell.

  "What'd you do to him?"

  "Nothing. I swear. He was sitting right there, then he just fell over."

  "He had a heart attack, Andy," Russell said.

  "Is he breathing?"

  Russell checked Floyd T.'s pulse.

  "No."

  Ramon made the sign of the cross.

  "Shit." Andy turned in a fast circle. "Anyone know CPR?"

  "I do."

  Russell tilted Floyd T.'s chin back to straighten his airway then pinched his nose. He put his mouth on Floyd T.'s. He blew slowly-once, twice "Mr. Reeves," Darrell said, "you don't know where his mouth has been."

  — then he knelt up, put his hands together, and pushed on Floyd T.'s chest-"one, two, three"-and again and again. Then he gave Floyd T. mouth-to-mouth again.

  Russell came up and said, "Darrell, let's get him in the limo."

  "But Mr. Reeves, I just had it cleaned."

  "Pick him up!"

  Darrell squatted, slid his arms under Floyd T., and lifted him off the ground as easily as if he were an infant. He carried Floyd T. over to the limo, where Russell was holding the back door open. Darrell hunched over and disappeared into the limo with Floyd T. in his arms. He lay Floyd T. down then backed out and ran around to the driver's seat. Andy yelled to Ramon, "Put his grocery cart in your shop!" Then he followed Russell into the limo and shut the door.

  Harmon and Cecil watched the scene from the front seat of the Crown Vic parked down the street.

  "One less homeless person in the world," Harmon said.

  "I've never ridden in a limo," Cecil said. "Bet it's neat."

  "Not so much for the bum."

  They had staked out Andy Prescott's office most of the day, but so far no one had gone in or out of the door to 1514?.

  Where was this guy?

  "We don't even know what Prescott looks like," Cecil said.

  "Like a lawyer. You see anyone over there looks like a lawyer?"

  "I haven't seen anyone in this whole town looks normal, except the rich guy in the limo. You think that's Prescott?"

  "A traffic ticket lawyer with a limo and a bodyguard? I don't think so, Cecil."

  "Good point."

  Inside the limo, Russell told Darrell to drive to Austin General Hospital in downtown. Andy dug his cell phone out of his backpack and called ahead while Russell performed CPR all the way to the emergency entrance where a team of nurses and doctors had gathered outside. Andy opened the door and jumped out. He and Darrell lifted Floyd T. out and placed him on the waiting gurney. The doctors and nurses stood frozen in place, staring at Floyd T. like he was an illegal Mexican immigrant walking in the front door.

  "Come on, get him inside!" Andy said.

  "Is he homeless?" a nurse asked.

  "Yeah. So?"

  "So we're a private hospital. If he doesn't have insurance, you have to take him to the public hospital."

  "He's a war hero!"

  "Then take him to the VA hospital," a doctor said.

  "Where's it at?"

  "San Antonio."

  "That's eighty miles from here!"

  Russell climbed out of the limo.

  "He has insurance. Me."

  The nurses' and doctors' expressions changed.

  "Mr. Reeves," the nurse said.

  "Take care of this man."

  "Get him into the ER!" the doctor said. "Stat!"

  The entire medical team sprang into action. One jumped up onto the gurney and straddled Floyd T. and started CPR. The others pushed the gurney inside through the automatic doors. They disappeared around a corner.

  Thirty minutes later, Andy had registered Floyd T., Russell Reeves had signed a financial responsibility form, and they were sitting in the waiting room. Waiting. And drinking a Jo's coffee. Russell had sent Darrell on a coffee run. Floyd T. was in emergency bypass surgery.

  "Thanks, Russell."

  "Good coffee."

  "Not for the coffee. For Floyd T."

  "I know." Russell shook his head. "Hospitals. This is a private non-profit hospital-they pay no state or federal taxes in exchange for providing free care to indigents. But they don't. They send poor people to the public hospital. And when they do treat the uninsured, they charge them double what they charge insured patients."

  "Why?"

  "Because they can. And because the insurance companies demand discounts normal people can't get."

  "Different prices for different people for the same treatment? That's not fair."

  "No, Andy, it's not. They should have their tax exemptions revoked. But the government doesn't enforce the law. Politics. I've been against national health care, but now I know it's the only fair way to go. Otherwise, it won't be long before only people like me will have health care. At least then we could operate the health care industry like a business instead of politics. The U.S. government is the biggest single purchaser of drugs in the world-Medicaid, Medicare, the VA-but it doesn't negotiate discounts from the pharmaceuticals. It pays list price. How stupid is that? But the drug companies bribe politicians with campaign contributions, so Congress makes it illegal for a U.S. citizen to go to Canada and buy the same drugs cheaper."

  Russell took a few moments to calm himself.

  "So tell me about the eighth woman."

  Andy handed the dossier to his client. Russell thumbed through it while Andy gave him a full report on Sally and Jimmy Armstrong in San Diego. Russell was shaking his head.

  "Paralyzed at sixteen… his whole life in a wheelchair."

  "Seven out of eight kids, Russell."

  "He's not mine, Andy. And neither is his sister. I knew Sally twelve years ago."

  "Another married woman? While you were married?"

  "She was divorced. She must have remarried."

  Andy recalled that Sally Armstrong's divorce and second mar
riage were mentioned in the dossier.

  "All these sick kids."

  "You're over-thinking this, Andy. Life is random. Cruelly random."

  "At least Jimmy's getting great care."

  "I'll still wire a million to your trust account. You can fly back out to San Diego and give it to her… after you find Frankie Doyle."

  "The DNA matched?"

  Russell Reeves nodded. "The girl's mine, Andy."

  "Natalie Riggs is pregnant?"

  Tres' face was grim. "Two months, the doctor said."

  Andy and Tres were sitting at their usual table at Guero's. Dave was at his nude yoga class, and Curtis was teaching an evening seminar.

  "How's she handling it?"

  "She's happy." Tres shrugged. "Hormones must've kicked in. She and her mother, they're at Neiman Marcus right now picking out maternity clothes."

  "Hey, she'll probably start wearing underwear now."

  "Yeah… big underwear."

  "There's just no pleasing you, Tres."

  "She took her cameraman with her."

  "To buy underwear?"

  "For the news. Says she's going to do a series on pregnancy and motherhood from start to finish, in real time." He drank from his beer. "Course, that means we've got to get married now. You'll be my best man?"

  "Do I get free beer?"

  They drank Coronas and contemplated life for a few minutes, as if offering a moment of silence for Tres' bachelorhood.

  "Man, she had a great body," Tres said softly, as if speaking of a deceased dear friend.

  "She'll get it back, Tres. Natalie's not the type to keep the baby fat."

  "That's what she says. But you should've seen her getting down on the double-chocolate cookie-dough ice cream last night."

  Another moment of silence, this time for Natalie's great body. Tres broke the silence again.

  "How's Floyd T.?"

  "Good. Double bypass surgery. They said he needed to sleep, so I left, came straight here. Doctor said he'll be in the hospital for a week."

  "Reeves took him over there in his limo? Paid for his care?"

  "And gave him mouth-to-mouth."

  "Can't say I would've done the same. He really is a good guy, like they say."

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  Tres turned to him.

  "You guess? Talk to me, buddy."

  Andy hesitated then said, "Tres, you can't breathe a word of this to anyone, not even Natalie."

  "With what you could tell her about me?"

  "I can't imagine what Russell Reeves would do to me if this got out. And Natalie's a reporter."

  "I can't imagine what Natalie would do to me if she found out I hired a PI to follow her. We're in a Mexican standoff, buddy."

  Andy drank beer for courage.

  "I'm tracking down Russell Reeves' old girlfriends. Seventeen."

  " Seventeen? No way."

  "Way. All over the country."

  "That's why you've been traveling so much?"

  Andy nodded. "We found the first six women easy enough."

  "We who?"

  "Downtown PI, ex-FBI. Russell gave me his name, only the PI doesn't know Russell's the client. Anyway, we found them, and Russell gave each woman a million bucks. Anonymously."

  "Why?"

  "He doesn't want anyone to know-"

  "No. Why'd he give them money?"

  "To make amends, he said. Because he treated them badly and they're down on their luck."

  Tres nodded. "He's suffering that rich-guilt complex. Feels guilty for being filthy rich, so he relieves his guilt by giving his money away. It's a common affliction among the rich… not for me, but for some rich people." Tres shrugged. "Course, for him, a million is like us giving a bum a buck. Well, for you anyway."

  "Thanks."

  "So he's giving away a bunch of money. What's the problem?"

  "We had a hard time finding the seventh woman-her name's Frankie Doyle. So I went to her last-known address in Boston, talked to her ex-husband. Name's Mickey. He hit her, so she divorced him three years ago and took off with their five-year-old daughter. They moved to Montana then to New Mexico and West Texas and now to Buda."

  "As in Buda just down the road?"

  "Yeah. And they changed their names every time."

  "She must really be afraid of Mickey."

  "Maybe. But we found her. Or Lorenzo did."

  "Why not the FBI guy?"

  "He goes by the book."

  "You meet her?"

  Andy nodded. "Says she never dated anyone but Mickey."

  "She's lying."

  "Why would she lie about that?"

  "Everyone lies."

  "Maybe."

  "Okay, so she's on the run from Mickey. And Reeves wants to give her a million bucks. I still don't see the problem."

  "Russell says the girl is his."

  " Whoa. Hold on. How?"

  "He says they had an affair while he was up in Boston, teaching at MIT. Nine years ago."

  "While he was married?"

  "And while she was."

  "Now that's a problem, Russell Reeves with a love child. How does he know the girl is his?"

  "DNA."

  "How'd he get her DNA?"

  "He didn't."

  "You did?"

  Andy nodded.

  "How?"

  "Band-Aid in the trash."

  Tres seemed impressed.

  "Does she know Reeves is the father of her child?"

  Andy shrugged. "When I went back out to get the DNA, she and the girl, they had already bolted."

  "Why?"

  "They're scared."

  "Of what? Or whom?"

  "I don't know."

  "So Reeves had you tracking down his old girlfriends to find this girl?"

  "Yeah… or to find out if he had another child. But here's the weird part."

  Tres laughed. "Like none of that was weird?"

  "Seven of the eight women have sick kids, like Russell."

  "How sick?"

  "Cancer, paralysis, cerebral palsy… The only kid who's not sick is-"

  "Reeves' love child."

  Andy nodded. "But Russell's worried she might get sick. Says he might have given the girl the same cancer gene he gave his son."

  "Who's dying."

  "Exactly. Said if she has the gene, he wants his scientists to give her gene therapy. To save her life."

  "So she's running from Mickey… or someone… but doesn't know her daughter might have cancer… or might get cancer."

  Andy nodded again.

  "And Russell wants you to find her again."

  "Yep."

  "Complicated."

  They sat quietly and finished their beers.

  "Tres, can I ask you a rich person question?"

  "Municipal bonds."

  "Is Russell Reeves a complicated person because he's rich? Or is he rich because he's complicated?"

  "He's rich because he's a genius. He lives a complicated life because when you're rich, the simple stuff of life is easy. You don't have to worry about paying the bills or buying medicine or affording college tuition. So life can get boring unless you create complications to make it interesting."

  "Like having affairs while you're married to a Miss UT?"

  Tres nodded. "Like most rich people, he figures the rules don't apply to him. He can do whatever he wants. Of course, the past always comes back and bites you in the butt… like finding out you have a love child. Then life gets complicated."

  "Are you like that?"

  "I probably will be by the time I'm forty."

  They watched a pedicab try to cross Congress and almost get nailed by a speeding SUV.

  "That would've hurt," Tres said. He turned to Andy. "Be careful, buddy."

  Andy laughed at his friend's serious expression.

  "Tres, this deal is definitely a ten on the Weird-Shit-O-Meter-of-Life all right, but I don't think I'm in danger or anything." He pointed at the pedicab. "Riding i
n one of those down Congress, now that's dangerous."

  "You read yesterday's paper?"

  Andy shook his head. "I was in San Diego."

  Tres reached to his back pocket and pulled out a folded-up page from a newspaper. He unfolded and smoothed the page on the table. It was a newspaper article about an Austin lawyer who had been shot and killed in Ithaca, New York, the apparent victim of a random robbery. He was only forty.

  "What's he got to do with me?"

  "Read the rest of the story."

  Andy read aloud: " 'Laurence G. Smith had been a partner at Rankin Edwards amp; Phillips, a prominent Austin law firm whose clients include

  … Russell Reeves.' "

  NINETEEN

  First thing the next morning, Andy Prescott rode his bike down South Congress, parked outside his favorite PI's office, and walked inside. Lorenzo Escobar looked up from his laptop.

  "Don't tell me you lost her?"

  " 'Fraid so."

  Lorenzo seemed amused.

  "Oh, I checked out that Maureen O'Malley Reeves."

  Andy had asked Lorenzo to run a search on Russell Reeves' mother. He wasn't sure why.

  "She's legit. Lives out in California in a high-end retirement place on the ocean. Got a son lives here. Russell Reeves, the billionaire."

  Russell had told the truth.

  "What color is her hair?"

  "Blue."

  Lorenzo motioned Andy over to his laptop.

  "My West Coast associate, he took this photo, emailed it over." On the screen was a color photo of four old women. "One on the right, that's her."

  "She does have blue hair. They all have blue hair."

  Lorenzo shrugged. "Old ladies do that. Anglos, anyway."

  "I need you to find Frankie Doyle again."

  "She don't want to be found."

  "I've got to find her."

  "Same fee?"

  Andy nodded. Lorenzo faced the laptop. Andy sat and read the local paper. Ten minutes later, he heard Lorenzo's voice.

  "Gotcha."

  Lorenzo wrote a note and handed it to Andy.

  "That's her new address."

  Andy turned to leave, but Lorenzo said, "You forgetting something?"

  "I'll get the money, bring it back later."

  Lorenzo grabbed his keys. "I'll drive you."

  Lorenzo Escobar drove a black 2005 Cadillac Escalade with blacked-out windows and black leather seats. Selena, the Latina singing sensation who had been murdered when she was just twenty-three by the president of her fan club, sang softly on the CD player. Lorenzo had driven Andy first to the bank for his $9,999, and then to San Marcos thirty miles south of Austin.