The Common Lawyer (12 page)

"Man, you ain't gonna find a woman in those ads," Ramon said. "You gotta find a woman the old-fashioned way—in a bar."

"Like that worked for you."

Ramon had met his wife in a bar two years ago. She left him a year later for another man she had met in a bar. Which reminded Andy: he had promised Tres the phone number of a private investigator.

"Ramon, who's that PI you hired to tail your wife?"

"My
ex
-wife."

"She was your wife when you hired the PI."

"She was a cheating, no-good, two-peso …"

Andy was never sure what bothered Ramon more, that she was cheating on him with another man or that she was cheating on him with another tattoo artist. She had allowed her lover/artist to finish the mural that Ramon had begun on her body. Once he got started, Ramon could go on about his ex-wife like Andy's mother could about football.

"The PI's name?"

"Lorenzo Escobar, down Congress a few blocks."

Andy logged off, took one final glance at the coed's bottom, and headed to the door.

"Wake up, Max."

But he stopped short when Ramon said, "Oh, dude was here looking for you. In a limo."

Andy turned back.

"A limo? Down here? Looking for
me?
"

"What'd I say?"

"Who?"

"White dude. In a suit. Checked out my flash"—his standard tattoo designs displayed on a flip rack like art stores used for prints—"asked did I know where you were at. I said, 'I look like a secretary?' "

"These tickets his?"

"Didn't leave a ticket."

"Who was he?"

Ramon wiped blood from the girl's butt then pointed the needle end of the tattoo machine at a newspaper on the counter.

"Him."

Andy picked up the paper. On the front page was a photograph of three middle-aged white men wearing suits and a younger white woman: the mayor of Austin, the governor of Texas, a famous billionaire, and his beautiful blonde wife, all faces well known in Austin.

"The mayor was here?"

Ramon laughed. "What the hell would the mayor want with you?"

"The governor?"

A bigger laugh. "What've you been smoking?"

That left only one, the least likely of all.

"Russell Reeves was here?"

Ramon nodded without looking up from the girl's butt.

"When?"

"Couple hours ago."

"What'd he want?"

"You."

"Why?"

"Didn't say. I didn't ask. I mind my own business."

"Since when?"

Ramon gave him a look over his glasses and a half-smile.

"Okay if I borrow the paper?"

A nod. "Later, bro."

Andy and Max climbed the stairs to his office. Max turned around three times and curled up on his pad in the corner. Andy sat and read the newspaper article. Russell Reeves had just donated $100 million to a scholarship fund so low-income students could attend college. He was being hailed as a visionary philanthropist by the governor and the mayor, the latest in a long line of politicians to honor Russell Reeves.

Russell Reeves was an Austin legend, like Michael Dell. When Reeves was only twenty-two, he invented a computer gizmo that had revolutionized the Internet; he sold it for billions in stock during the high-tech boom years on Wall Street. He then invested in other high-tech companies and made billions more as the NASDAQ climbed to 5000. But he saw the technology boom about to bust, so he sold everything right before the stock market crash of 2000. He walked away from the nineties with over $20 billion in cash. Everything he touched had turned to gold.

Then he gave the gold away.

He gave money to liberal politicians and poor people, environmental causes and alternate energy research, the arts and AIDS; he gave money to build low-income housing and health clinics in East Austin and to buy computers for the public schools and parkland for the people; he gave money to fight global warming and defeat Republicans. Russell Reeves was a devout do-gooder with a heart of gold and a bank account to match. To date, the Russell and Kathryn Reeves Foundation had donated over $2 billion to make Austin a better place.

Reeves was forty now and married to a former Miss UT. Seeing him standing there next to his beauty queen wife in the photo while the governor called him a Texas hero and the mayor said he was Austin's favorite son, and knowing he was worth $15 billion according to the latest
Forbes
ranking, you'd probably think Russell Reeves was the luckiest man on the face of the Earth … unless you knew about his son.

His seven-year-old son was dying.

Zachary Reeves had a rare, incurable form of cancer. All known medical therapies—chemo, radiation, bone marrow transplant—had failed. So his father had established the Reeves Research Institute on the UT campus, a state-of-the-art cancer research laboratory dedicated to finding a cure for his disease. Russell Reeves had hired renowned scientists from around the world and brought them to Austin. He had spent money and spared no expense. But five years and $5 billion later, there was still no cure. The doctors gave the boy a year.

Consequently, while Russell Reeves was beloved and admired by everyone, he was envied by no one. He was viewed as a tragic figure in Austin. And he was standing in Andy's doorway.

"May I come in?"

Andy dropped the newspaper and stood. Max sensed something was up, so he stood, too.

"Mr. Reeves. Yes, sir. Please come in."

Reeves glanced over at Max. "Does it bite?"

"Only Jo's muffins. Name's Max." Andy stuck his hand out. "I'm Andy Prescott."

Andy had never before shaken the hand of a billionaire. Or even a millionaire, except for Tres.

"Andy, I'm Russell Reeves."

Russell Reeves' net worth made him seem bigger than life, but he was actually no bigger than Andy. His suit was tailored and expensive and draped like silk over his shoulders. He had once worn thick glasses, but Andy had read that he had gotten laser eye surgery. His black hair, once famously thick and curly, was now thinner and shorter and gray on the sides. None of the girls at Whole Foods would call him handsome, but they'd be all over him like politicians on special-interest money. Especially Suzie. Fifteen billion dollars in the bank improved a man's looks.

Russell Reeves was frowning.

"You get mugged?"

"Trail biking. Took a header on the greenbelt yesterday."

Reeves nodded then surveyed the small office.

"No wasted space. I like that."

"You do?"

Reeves smiled. "When I first started out, I lived at work, an old building in the warehouse district. Couldn't afford an apartment, so I showered at the Y." He gestured at the open window. "No air-conditioning, like this place."

Violin music drifted in from next door. The student was advanced. Reeves cocked his head to listen.

"Nice."

"Comes with the rent."

"Mind if I sit down?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, Mr. Reeves."

They sat across the card table from each other. Russell Reeves studied Andy for a long, uncomfortable moment; the last time Andy had felt this uneasy was when he had met with the dean of the law school to learn whether he had been admitted.

"Andy, I need a lawyer."

"You've got hundreds of lawyers."

"This is special."

"You got stopped speeding through a school zone?"

Reeves smiled. "A little more special than a speeding ticket, Andy. I want to fix SoCo."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing a billion dollars can't fix."

"I don't represent developers."

"Ah, a man of principle."

"Uh, no. I've just never been asked."

"Oh. Well, Andy, I want to purchase those eyesores—old abandoned grocery stores, strip centers, slum apartments—and build quality low-income housing so regular people can afford to live in SoCo. Town homes with pools and playscapes for kids."

"We've been trying to get the city to build low-income housing down here for years."

"Governments are bureaucracies, Andy. I have the money and power to cut through the bureaucracy and get things done. The same people said it couldn't be done in East Austin, but we did it. And I want to do it here. Austin should be for all people regardless of wealth and I want you to help me make it that way. Andy, I want you to be my lawyer in SoCo."

"Why me?"

"Like I said, Andy, I've got the money and power to make this happen at city hall. What I don't have is the trust of the people down here. They'll say I'm trying to take over SoCo. Change it. Make it like North Austin."

"People down here don't trust anyone north of the river."

"Which is why I need a lawyer who's trusted south of the river."

"I do traffic tickets."

"You're a lawyer, aren't you?"

Andy glanced up at his diploma hanging on the wall next to the American IronHorse poster.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"And you know everyone down here and everyone knows you?"

Andy shrugged.

"And everyone down here trusts you?"

Another shrug.

"And you office above a tattoo parlor, so I'm betting you've got a tattoo?"

Andy nodded. Russell Reeves held his hands out.

"You're perfect."

"I am?"

"Andy, I send my downtown lawyers into SoCo wearing Armani and acting like assholes, the locals will shut us down before we get started. It'd be a disaster."

He was right.

"Mr. Reeves, how'd you get my name?"

"My secretary, Doris Sullivan. You handled her traffic ticket."

"I called her this morning."

"I overheard. I've been thinking how to handle this, so when she mentioned you, I checked you out and liked what I learned."

"You did?"

"Look, Andy, you didn't graduate at the top of your class, we both know that. And I wouldn't hire you to handle an IPO, but you're the right man for this job. How much do you charge?"

"Well, uh …"

Andy hadn't had an hourly fee client in his entire career.

"… how about for—"

"Four hundred? My downtown lawyers charge twice that." Reeves waved a hand in the air. "But then, you don't have their overhead. All right, four hundred dollars an hour it is."

Four hundred dollars an hour?
Andy was going to say forty. His pulse ratcheted up while his mind raced through the financial implications of billing four hundred dollars an hour: one billable hour would cover his office rent for two months, two billable hours his house rent and utilities, and another his entire month's living expenses, three billable hours a date with Suzie … and twenty billable hours—My God, that would buy a Stumpjumper!

"So, Andy, do you want to be my lawyer or not?"

Andy's mind was playing a video of himself hammering the Hill of Life on a Stumpjumper, shredding the trails, carving the corners, bombing the descent …

"Andy?"

Andy blinked hard and returned to the moment. He focused on the billionaire sitting across from him—on the answer to all his dreams.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Reeves. I do want to be your lawyer."

"Excellent. First purchase is the old grocery store site this side of Oltorf."

"They've been asking five million. We've stopped two office buildings from going in there."

"They're taking four, and we're going to build two hundred low-income town homes. The purchase is contingent upon the residents approving the redevelopment plan. That's your job. You get them on board and the deal closed. My downtown lawyers will provide the contracts and handle all the title matters. We've identified a dozen more properties. You'll be a busy lawyer, Andy. I hope you've got a lot of free time."

"I'll juggle my schedule."

"Good."

Russell Reeves stood and held out a business card.

"My numbers. Call me on my cell phone anytime."

Reeves' business card was fancy with embossed lettering. Andy's was not. He had made his cards on Ramon's computer. He handed one to Reeves.

"That's my cell phone."

As if he had another phone.

"Welcome aboard, Andy."

They shook hands again, then Reeves reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Andy.

"This should cover the first week."

Russell Reeves walked to the door then turned back.

"But get a haircut, okay?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Reeves."

He disappeared down the stairs. Andy stepped to the window and saw Russell Reeves emerge on the sidewalk below and walk over to a waiting limousine, which was double-parked. A cop had stopped and was standing next to a big bald white dude in a black suit and sunglasses; the cop was writing a ticket. He looked up when Reeves arrived. The cop's body language suddenly changed; he now appeared to be apologizing. He shut his ticket book. He smiled and shook Reeves' hand. Then he left the scene.