The Common Lawyer (18 page)

"What does he want?"

"He says he wants to give money to the hospital."

"Give him a brochure and tell him who to write the check to."

"He wants to give us fifty million dollars."

Dennis sat up.

"
Fifty million?
"

Ellen nodded. Dennis stood up.

"Show Mr. Smith in."

Dennis came around his desk while Ellen opened the door and said, "Mr. Smith, please come in."

A middle-aged man in a suit entered. Dennis had met enough lawyers in his time to recognize another one. He extended his hand, and they shook.

"Mr. Smith … Dennis Lott. Please sit down."

Smith took a seat in front of the desk; Dennis sat behind it.

"So you want to donate fifty million to our hospital?"

"That's correct, Mr. Lott."

"Dennis. Well, that's wonderful, Mr. Smith. May I ask why we're the lucky beneficiary of your generosity?"

"Because you have something I need, Dennis."

"And what is that?"

"A name."

"Whose name?"

Mr. Smith dug papers out of his briefcase and put them on Lott's desk. Dennis looked at the top page and laughed.

"What, you work for a drug company?" Mr. Smith didn't answer. "You think Patient X is real?"

"Don't you?"

"No. I think it was all a hoax perpetrated by Falco to hype his research and attract more funding. Researchers do that, you know. Hell, it worked. The Chinese paid him millions to move his research over there."

"I talked to Falco."

"You went to China?"

"Yes. I need that name."

"Falco wouldn't reveal it?"

"No."

"Did you offer him a donation?"

"Yes."

"That's Tony. Well, Mr. Smith, I'd take your money and give you the name, but unfortunately for both of us, I don't have the names of Falco's research patients."

"They're not in the hospital records?"

"No. Falco insisted on absolute privacy for his patients. Only he knew their names."

"But it's your hospital."

Dennis snorted. "That's not how things work, Mr. Smith. Falco brought in hundreds of millions in research grants. Three West was his kingdom."

"Well, Dennis, I have fifty million dollars to offer you, if you can give me that woman's name."

"What woman's name?"

"Patient X."

Dennis sat back and thought about what Mr. Smith knew and what he did not know. Which made him smile. Because what Mr. Smith did not know had just saved Dennis Lott's career.

"Mr. Smith, I have something much more valuable than a woman's name. But it will cost your client one hundred million dollars."

Larry Smith was sweating profusely. How could he end up here, kneeling on the concrete floor of an abandoned warehouse in Ithaca, New York, with two thugs standing over him and a gun pointed at his head? He had graduated
summa cum laude
from Yale Law School and had been recruited by prestigious law firms from New York to L.A. Ten years later, he was a partner making $800,000 a year. Sure, that required he handle somewhat sleazy assignments from time to time, but even sleazy clients were entitled to a lawyer, right? Well, if they had enough money.

"What did the nurse tell you?"

"Nothing. I swear."

"What about Lott? Did he give you her name?"

"I can't tell you that. My God, that's attorney-client privileged information!"

The man named Harmon touched the barrel of the gun to Larry's head.

"This is a Glock 9. It doesn't recognize the attorney-client privilege, Mr. Smith."

To hell with the privilege.

"In my briefcase."

"Open it."

Larry opened the briefcase. "There."

The man removed the papers Lott had given Larry and thumbed through them.

"Very good. Is this all he gave you?"

"Yes."

That was a lie.

"Who else knows this?"

"I can't say."

"Give me a name."

Larry tried to think. He had already sent the items he had purchased from Lott to his client by overnight delivery. So he had completed his assignment. If he revealed his client's identity to this creep, and if that got his client killed, his career would be over because his richest client would be dead; on the other hand, if he revealed his client's name and his client survived, his career would still be over—he would have violated the attorney-client privilege and could be disbarred. He would certainly be fired. Either way, it was so long $800,000 salary. So there seemed to be no upside to revealing his client's identity. But his only chance of survival was to give the man a name. So he gave him the name of someone whose life he would readily trade for his own.

"Andy Prescott."

"Who's Andy Prescott?"

"A lawyer in Austin." Larry looked up at the man named Harmon. "Please don't kill me."

"Motion denied, Mr. Smith."

ELEVEN

A rich client changes a lawyer's life.

Six weeks to the day after Russell Reeves had walked into his little office above Ramon's tattoo parlor in SoCo, Andy Prescott woke with a mane of blonde hair across his face and a slender arm across his chest—and not his hair or his arm. He smiled, as he often found himself doing these days.

He had closed three deals, billed one hundred fifty hours, and collected $60,000 in legal fees from Russell Reeves. Consequently, he was not waking up that Monday morning in the cheap $600-a-month rent house on Newton Street. (Although he was still renting the house; he wasn't sure why.) He was waking up in a king-sized bed on the top floor of a $3,000-per-month tri-level loft on Fifth Street in downtown Austin. With a girl. A beautiful girl. One of those superficial but incredibly fit Whole Foods girls, like Suzie.

In fact, Suzie.

He propped himself up on his elbow and admired her. She was awesome. Perfect face, perfect body, perfect smell. She didn't snore. She was like a dream, lying there in his bed. He gently touched her bare bottom; she was real. The touch of his skin against hers, especially that particular patch of her skin, felt even better than that day when he had first run his hands over the new Stumpjumper. Suzie stirred and opened those blue eyes.

"I had a great time last night, Andy."

They had gone to Qua, the trendy lounge with a shark tank in the floor.

"You were right," Andy said.

"About what?"

"About being an expensive date."

An $800 date. Only two billable hours.

"But I'm worth it."

He rolled over on top of her.

"Oh, yeah."

Andy Prescott was the happiest man on the planet.

The bedroom on the third level had a fabulous view of Lady Bird Lake. The bathroom had granite countertops, a Jacuzzi tub, a two-person, four-jet, walk-in steam shower, and a bidet. The kitchen and living room were on the second level, and the first level was a one-car garage half-sunk into the ground. The place had come fully furnished. All for only seven and a half billable hours per month. The owner was a friend of Tres; he had been temporarily relocated. Andy was renting month-to-month, but who knows—if the owner didn't come back, he might be able to buy the place. Living in a downtown loft was indeed sweet.

An hour later, Suzie was gone and Andy was dressed in a stylish sports coat, a wrinkle-free button-down shirt, a tie that didn't clip on, slacks, and leather shoes and riding the Stumpjumper the two blocks to Whole Foods. He couldn't bring himself to buy a car because of the pollution and high gas prices, but he was wearing new clothes, riding a new trail bike, living in a new place, and dating a new girl. Andy Prescott was a new man. The man he had always dreamed of being.

Thanks to Russell Reeves.

He parked and locked the bike outside Whole Foods and went in for his breakfast tacos—Suzie couldn't make a bowl of Cheerios—but his journey to the taco bar was interrupted.

"Hi, Andy."

Bobbi. A senior brunette majoring in nightlife ("journalism" in the UT curriculum catalog). Another top-of-the-line fit-and-Spandexed Whole Foods girl.

"Oh, hi, Bobbi. You're looking especially delicious this morning."

She smiled and inched closer. Andy could feel movement south of the border.

"Where's Suzie?"

"Who? Oh, Suzie … yeah, she's, uh, somewhere."

"I saw y'all at Qua last night. I'll be there tonight. If you come alone, maybe we could hang out … or whatever."

Whatever sounded good. But there was Suzie. She would call him later about his plans for that night. He could just not answer his phone, but then she might unexpectedly stop by the loft. (Funny how territorial women were, which was a new and fascinating experience for Andy.) Or he could … Bobbi stepped closer to allow a woman pushing a cart past; her breast—covered only by a thin layer of Spandex—rubbed against Andy's chest and wiped his mind clean of all thoughts of Suzie as effectively as an eraser on a chalkboard.

"I'll see you tonight, Bobbi."

She squeezed his arm.

"Tonight."

She walked away. Andy stared after her. Bobbi had a bodacious body.

You couldn't slap the smile off Andy Prescott's face.

Andy was a new man, but he still got his coffee at Jo's.

"Mr. GQ dude himself," Guillermo Garza said when Andy stepped up to his window for his coffee. "Looking sharp, bro. Large coffee and a muffin?"

"Just the coffee. I ate at Whole Foods. But give me Floyd T.'s."

Guillermo nodded at the trail bike.

"That's an awesome ride, dude."

"Stumpjumper."

"What'd that set you back?"

"Sixty-five hundred."

"Living large now."

"I'm still the same guy."

Guillermo laughed. "If Russell Reeves hired me, I sure wouldn't be the same guy." He pointed past Andy. "You forget something?"

"What?"

"The
Chronicle
."

"Nah."

"Oh, don't need to look for love in the personals anymore, huh, Andy?"

Andy smiled. "I found a better place."

Now Guillermo smiled. "Whole Foods."

"Amen, brother."

They fist-punched through the open window.

"Keep the faith, bro."

Andy paid then pedaled to his office. He found Floyd T. on Ramon's stoop and gave him his breakfast; he put a $20 bill in Floyd T.'s cigar box. Floyd T. whistled.

"A high-roller. Thanks, Andy."

Andy Prescott was still the same guy, albeit better dressed and with better transportation. He still worked in the little office above Ramon's tattoo parlor, he still mooched off Ramon's Yahoo account, and he still went to traffic court.

He was trapped by his own traffic ticket scheme.

He had requested a jury trial on every ticket for every client; consequently, he had cases set for trial every Monday of every week for the next two years. If he didn't show up to contest, the city would win by default; and he would have to make good on his guarantees to his clients. At $500 a pop, the fines would add up fast. He had five cases set for that Monday morning, so he was looking at upwards of $2,500 out of pocket. His pocket. Out of which he had just paid $15,000 to the IRS for quarterly income taxes, social security taxes, and Medicaid taxes—an outrageous sum! Six weeks' hard work, and he had netted only $45,000 after taxes. Now he understood why rich people complained about the government taking so much of their money.

He could not afford to pay his clients' fines.

So just before nine, Andy Prescott walked into the Municipal Court Building. Arturo waved him through the security checkpoint without making him empty his pockets. Andy rode the elevator to the third floor and entered the courtroom. Judge Judith immediately motioned him forward. When he arrived at the bench, she smiled at him like a mother whose prodigal son had returned home—with a job. She put her hand over the microphone.

"Andy, you're looking quite professional today. And your hair—very nice."

"Thank you, Judge. You're looking as beautiful as ever."

"I know you're busy with Mr. Reeves, so we'll call your cases first."

"Why, thank you, Judge."

Fifteen minutes later, his five cases were dismissed and Andy was walking out the door. Ms. Manning stopped him and handed him her business card. She leaned close and whispered.

"Come by my office, Andy. We'll lock the door and bang out a plea bargain."

She gave him a wicked wink. Ms. Prosecutor had a wild streak beneath that buttoned-up suit. Andy was smiling when he walked out the courtroom door.