The Common Lawyer (20 page)

"You want me to fly all over the country to find these women?"

"First class."

"I can fly first class?"

"Of course."

Andy had never flown first class.

"And luxury rental cars. You do know how to drive something other than that bike?"

"Sure."

"Five-star hotels, room service, whatever you want."

"Can I watch those pay-per-view movies in my room?"

"Sure. But not porn."

"Oh."

He tried not to sound disappointed.

"And I'll pay you five hundred an hour. Because you'll be traveling a lot … and because you'll have to defer sweet Suzie until this job is done. Think you can do that?"

"Sure."

He didn't say anything about bodacious Bobbi.

"Russell, what about the other SoCo deals?"

"Put them on the back burner. Work this job twenty-four/seven. I want these women found ASAP."

"You're the boss."

Andy's rich boss. He sat back. Okay, this was all a bit weird—Andy gave it a seven on the Weird-Shit-O-Meter-of-Life—but then, his mother always said, "Rich people are different than you and me." And Dave said he had read about a black rapper who took a bubble bath every day and an Irish movie star who coated himself in honey then took a steam bath—and female stars who did regular body cleanses to stay skinny. Heck, compared to that, Russell Reeves wanting to find a few old girlfriends seemed almost normal. Almost. Andy realized his boss was staring at him.

"Something bothering you, Andy?"

Something was.

"Russell, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, Andy. What?"

"Is there more to this than you're telling me?"

Russell considered him a moment, then stood and walked to the window. He looked out a while before speaking.

"Andy, do you read the obituaries?"

"No. Do you?"

"Every day."

"Why?"

"Because of my son. You know about him?"

"Just what I've read in the paper."

"He's a great kid. And brave. He's dying, but he faces each day with a smile." He paused. "I killed my own son, Andy."

"Killed your son? How?"

"I'm a carrier."

"Of what?"

"A mutated gene—a cancer gene. I gave it to Zach."

"Russell, it's not your fault. You didn't know you had the gene—did you?"

"No. But that doesn't change the fact that Zach is dying because of me. That I sentenced him to death."

"Your scientists … they can't save him?"

"No, Andy, they can't. My only son is going to die."

Jesus.
Andy felt like an absolute jerk. In the six weeks since Russell Reeves had hired him, he had not once thought about his client's personal pain—his only son was dying. Andy had never thought of his client beyond the fees he had paid and the fees he would pay. Russell Reeves had given his lawyer Suzie and the Stumpjumper, the loft and lounges, standing in Muny Court and at Whole Foods. Andy had not given his client a second thought. He had looked upon Russell Reeves solely as a source of income. Andy Prescott had become a bona fide lawyer.

"I'm sorry, Russell."

He thought his client might cry, but Russell caught himself.

"I'm sorry for you, too, Andy. For your father."

"You know about him?"

Russell nodded. "I listen to his CDs in the limo. He's good. Should've been a big star."

Now Andy thought he might cry.

"He never got his big break."

Attorney and client regarded each other. They shared a common fate. Russell blew out a breath.

"So I read about dead people. About their lives. What they did, who they loved, who loved them. It's made me think about my own life … what I've done, who I've loved, who loved me. How I've treated other people in my life. I want to make things right … with my son, with these women, with my life … before I …"

His client looked as if all the strength had left him. He turned to his lawyer.

"Andy, will you help me?"

"Yes, Russell. I'll help you."

"Thanks."

Russell Reeves walked to the door, but turned back.

"Andy, my secrets are safe with you, right?"

Andy nodded. "I'm your lawyer."

TWELVE

Lawyers keep secrets. Their clients' secrets. It's called the attorney-client privilege. You learn about the privilege in your first year of law school. By your third year, without ever making a conscious decision, you have accepted the argument as truth: that everything a lawyer learns about a client must remain secret. It is your legal duty.

Andy Prescott was Russell Reeves' lawyer.

He read the first name on the list: Sue Todd. Her last known address was in Houston. Andy pulled out his cell phone and called long-distance information in the Houston area code. He asked for Sue Todd's number and gave the operator her address; the operator said no Sue Todd was listed at that address. He hung up.

How do you find someone?

Hollis McCloskey's private investigation firm maintained offices in the Frost Bank Tower at Fourth and Congress in downtown. When McCloskey strode into the reception area that same afternoon, Andy felt as if he should assume the position—lean into the wall, hands above his head, feet back and spread—so McCloskey could frisk him.

The guy was intimidating.

He looked every bit the ex-FBI agent: mid-fifties, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, sharp suit, and shiny shoes. His hair was blow-dried perfection with streaks of gray on the sides. He even smelled like a cop; Brut aftershave, Andy figured. McCloskey stuck a big hand out, and they shook.

"Hollis McCloskey. What can I do for you?"

"I'm Andy Prescott. I need to find seventeen people."

"We don't find people, Andy," McCloskey said. "We ferret out corporate malfeasance."

Malfeasance?
Andy vaguely recalled that word from law school.

"Mr. McCloskey, what's your standard rate?"

"Two hundred an hour."

"I'll pay you four hundred."

McCloskey sized up Andy, then said, "Let's talk in my office."

Andy followed Agent McCloskey down a corridor to an expansive corner office with a grand view of the capitol and the UT tower. Diplomas and FBI certificates covered the walls, along with photographs of McCloskey with politicians Andy recognized and even a president. Handguns sat encased in glass boxes on shelves. Mounted on the wall was a Tommy gun like FBI Special Agent Elliot Ness carried in that movie,
The Untouchables.

"Sit down."

It sounded like an order; Andy obeyed.

"So you're a lawyer?"

"Yes. You were highly recommended by one of your clients."

"Who?"

"Confidential."

McCloskey folded his arms across his broad chest.

"Your client wants to locate seventeen people?"

"Women. ASAP."

"That would require overtime."

"I'll pay five hundred an hour, twenty-four/seven."

Andy felt like a politician, spending other people's money freely and without concern.

"Why do you want to find these women?"

"I don't. My client does."

"Who's your client?"

"That's also confidential."

"And why does your client want to find these women?"

"Sorry. Confidential."

"Andy, I don't like all this mystery."

Andy reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cashier's check drawn on his trust account for $25,000 made payable to Hollis McCloskey. He pushed it across the desk. The G-man glanced at the check then back at Andy.

"Call me Hollis."

"Hollis, there's more where that came from. But this assignment must have your full attention. I need a complete dossier on each woman—personal, employment, and criminal history, financial condition, family problems … everything."

"Andy, so we're clear, I go by the book. I do not wander off the reservation, understood?"

The reservation?

Andy shrugged. "Sure, whatever. When you complete a dossier, bring it to me. Fifteen-fourteen and a half B South Congress. If I'm not there, leave it at the tattoo parlor downstairs."

"You office in SoCo?"

"Yeah."

"I'll send a courier."

"There's a nude yoga class on Thursday," Dave said. "You guys want to go?"

"You in the lotus position, naked?" Andy said. "That's not an image I want in my head."

"Listen to this girl's statement," Curtis said. He was reading personal ads again. "She says, 'I'm working on a Ph.D. in cosmology and consciousness, looking specifically at the continuum between time and timelessness from the perspective of physics and subjective experience. I'm trying to live a less abstract version of reality these days.' "

Dave stared blank-faced at Curtis.

"So does she want sex or not?"

"Guys," Andy said, "you're not going to find true love in the personals."

They both now stared at him. Dave shook his head.

"How quickly you forget those of us still stranded in the sexual desert."

Tres laughed. "The sexual desert? I like that, Dave."

"Thanks. But I've got a plan to escape that desert."

"What's that?" Andy said.

Dave pulled out his comb and swept his hair back.

"I'm gonna get a tattoo. A big one."

"Why?"

"Girls love tattoos."

"But they hurt."

"Girls?"

"Well, yeah, them too. And you hate pain."

"I'm gonna get a general anesthetic first."

"It's called alcohol. Dave, you think a tattooed real-estate broker is going to get a lot of clients?"

"Doesn't matter. I've got to find another job anyway—the market's tanked. I've got one listing—a subprime foreclosure over by the greenbelt—one-point-five-million-dollar mortgage. The borrowers just walked away."

"You sell it for a million, a six percent commission is sixty grand."

"Split with the buyer's broker."

"Thirty grand."

"Split with my office."

"Fifteen grand. That'd keep you in beer for a while."

"True, but chances of selling that place are nil. No one's even looked at it."

Ronda delivered their Coronas. Andy told her to put it on his tab. It was that night, and they were at their regular table on the front porch of Güero's. Erin Jaimes and Her Bad Habits were playing in the Oak Garden. The beer was cold, the music good, and the early October weather perfect.

And so was she.

Conversations stopped. Heads turned. Men stared. Girls frowned. A TV truck had pulled up, and Natalie Riggs, local TV personality, had stepped out. She walked up the sidewalk, stunning in a yellow sundress. The setting sun outlined her body beneath the dress. No underwear was evident. They stared at her like prison inmates.

Her teeth were movie-star white. Her figure was incredible. Her diamond engagement ring could choke a horse. She came to Tres, leaned over, and gave him a kiss. She whispered in his ear then stood tall and addressed them.

"Hello, boys."

Not
Hidi, y'all.
Born and raised in Odessa, Natalie Riggs had worked diligently to erase "hidi" and "y'all" and every other trace of Texas talk from her speech. "The networks don't find twang-talking Texans cute anymore," she had said. "Not after Bush."

Tres walked her back to the truck. He waved at the driver, then dug in his pocket and handed a few bills to Natalie. She kissed him again then jumped into the truck and drove off. Tres returned to the table through a gauntlet of envious eyes. He sat down.

"See—no underwear."

They drank their beers. The crowd noise picked up again and things soon returned to normal on the front porch of Güero's. Andy hoped that Dave had the good sense not to comment. He didn't.

"Tres," Dave said. "You think Natalie would cheat with me? I mean, I love you like a brother, but …
damn.
She is hot."

Andy was giving even odds whether Tres would smile or reach across the table and smack Dave. After a moment, he smiled.

"She is, isn't she?"

Tres Thorndike was good about having a gorgeous girlfriend who didn't wear undergarments.

A loud
aah
went up from the front porch. They looked out to the street; a jaywalker had narrowly dodged death by bus.

"I answered this ad," Curtis said.