The Common Lawyer (22 page)

"His cancer?"

She nodded. "Kids in the neighborhood, they cough all the time, get nosebleeds. You live by the ship channel, your kids got a fifty percent better chance of getting cancer, because of the toxic chemicals those plants put out—carcinogens. Twenty times higher level than anywhere else in the country. It was in the paper. The stuff is killing kids, but the government won't stop it."

"Why don't you leave?"

"If we leave here, we live in the car."

Sue Todd appeared twenty years older than her age. Life had beaten her down, stolen her middle age, robbed her of her best years. She must have gone straight from a young woman to an old woman. She wasn't one of those thirty-something "women seeking men" in Lovers Lane; she was just hoping to survive the day.

And save her son.

Three hours later, Andy was sitting in his office across the card table from a billionaire whose son was also dying of leukemia. Cancer was an equal-opportunity killer.

Andy had flown back to Austin and taken a cab to SoCo and the digital camera to a photo shop. The photographs he had taken of Sue Todd and her son were now spread across the card table.

"You recognize her?" Andy said.

Russell Reeves was examining the photos. He shook his head.

"She looks so much older. The boy has cancer?"

Andy nodded. "I trailed them to a cancer clinic, talked to Sue. She doesn't have insurance, so she maxed out her credit cards, owes a hundred grand. The clinic didn't want to give the boy his chemo treatment because she couldn't pay. She begged."

Russell rubbed his temples as if he had a headache.

"I'll wire five hundred thousand to your trust account. Take her a cashier's check." He paused. "No, I'll wire a million. And I'll make a call. Send her over to the children's cancer ward at M.D. Anderson. They'll be expecting her. Her son will have the best care available. For free."

"Have you been there?"

"Yes, Andy, I've been there. And so has my son."

Russell got up and walked out without another word. Andy could swear he had tears in his eyes.

The next morning, Andy flew back to Houston. He didn't drink a beer or flirt with the flight attendant. Instead, he thought of Sue and Ricky Todd and the cashier's check he had in his pocket.

Would the money save the boy's life?

He drove straight to Sue Todd's house. The Honda was in the driveway. He was thinking exactly what he would say to her when the front door opened and she appeared. She walked to the mailbox at the curb and pulled out a stack of thick envelopes. Credit card statements, no doubt. She sat on a bench on the front porch and opened the envelopes; with each one she seemed to become smaller. After the final envelope, she put her face in her hands. Andy got out of the car and walked up to her.

"Sue."

She wiped her face.

"We met yesterday, at the clinic. May I sit?"

She nodded. Andy sat next to her.

"I'm Andy Prescott. I'm a lawyer."

"I can't pay."

"I'm not here to collect your debts, Sue. I'm here to pay them off."

He pulled the envelope out of his pocket and removed the cashier's check for $1 million payable to Sue Todd. His hand was trembling when he handed it to her. She wiped her face again and stared at the check.

"What's this?"

"A cashier's check."

"A million dollars? What's it for?"

"For you. And Ricky."

"Why?"

"To make amends."

"For what?"

"The past."

"Who's it from?"

"I can't reveal that, Sue. But my client has made arrangements for Ricky to be treated at M.D. Anderson."

Andy handed her his business card with a doctor's name and number written on the back.

"They're expecting you. His care will be free."

"Can he go today?"

"Yes. But deposit the check first."

She turned the check over, as if to make sure it was real.

"This isn't a joke?"

"No, Sue, it's not a joke."

Tears rolled down her face, but she smiled and suddenly looked younger. He stood, and she stood.

"Thank you, Andy. And thank your client."

"And Sue … move away from here."

She hugged him and buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed until his shirt was wet. When Andy walked away, he was crying, too.

FOURTEEN

Flying first class to Chicago two days later, Andy Prescott hoped the search for the second woman on Russell Reeves' list would involve only eating a thick steak at Morton's that Friday night, finding a rich woman with healthy kids on Saturday, and then catching a Chicago Bears game on Sunday.

He rented a Lexus, stayed at the Ritz, ate that steak, and found Amanda Pearce the next morning. She was thirty-seven and appeared healthy when she walked out of her house to get the morning paper. He took photos. She lived in a nice suburban neighborhood; a late-model Buick sat in the driveway. They weren't rich, but they weren't poor. A few minutes later, a middle-aged man came out the front door followed by a cute teenage girl in a cheerleader uniform; they both appeared healthy. Andy took more photos. The dossier said Amanda also had a fourteen-year-old boy.

Andy was feeling good about the Pearce family … until the garage door opened. A van backed out and stopped in the driveway. It wasn't a family minivan or a cargo van or a tricked-out travel van. It was a specially-equipped van. Amanda got out and walked back inside the garage. When she returned, she was pushing a boy in a wheelchair.

Damn.

The van had a wheelchair lift. Amanda got the boy and the chair into the van, then backed out and drove off. Andy followed them a few blocks to a junior high school football stadium. Amanda parked the van in a handicapped space. Andy trailed them into the stadium. Amanda stationed the boy and wheelchair at the low chain link fence that surrounded the field. Andy leaned on the fence a few feet away and watched the game. After a few minutes, he smiled at Amanda and the boy.

"Good game," he said.

"Our daughter's a cheerleader." She pointed to the far sideline. "The one on the right. Becky. And this is our son, Carl."

"Hi, Carl."

The boy suffered tremors. He tried to say "hello," but he couldn't get the whole word out. Amanda leaned toward Andy.

"CP. Cerebral palsy. He can't walk on his own anymore. Bilateral spastic paraparesis." She was quiet for a moment then said, "I look at all those strong healthy boys running out there on the field, and I can't help but wonder, Why Carl?"

Andy returned to Austin the next morning and met with Russell Reeves that afternoon. Russell read the dossier and studied the photos of Amanda Pearce and her son. Andy sat quietly until his client spoke.

"Why's he in a wheelchair?"

"Cerebral palsy. Bilateral spastic parapa … parapara …"

"Paraparesis. Partial paralysis."

Russell Reeves rested his elbows on the card table and sat with his head in his hands for the longest time. Andy said nothing, but his client hadn't seemed surprised to learn that Amanda Pearce also had a sick child.

"They're a normal middle-class family," Andy said. "They've got health insurance, but his care is still a big financial burden. When I asked Amanda about that, she just smiled and said, 'He's worth it.' "

"A mother's love."

The next morning, Andy flew back to Chicago and drove to Amanda Pearce's house. He knocked on the front door and handed her a cashier's check for $1 million and sent Carl to Children's Memorial Hospital for treatment, all expenses paid. She cried.

The day after that, Andy flew first class to New Orleans. He prayed he wouldn't find another sick child. He didn't.

He found something worse.

He rented a Corvette, stayed in the French Quarter, and ate at K-Paul's. He found Tameka Evans that same day. She was thirty-five, poor, and a single African-American mother raising three boys and a girl—or so the dossier said. She was an attractive woman who might have been beautiful fifteen years before. Andy took photos from the car then sat on the front porch of the small shotgun house that had survived Katrina but sustained damage that had gone unrepaired. He talked with Tameka Evans about her life and her children's lives. Then he sat in the Corvette for a long time before driving off.

He flew back to Austin and met with Russell the next day. His client read the dossier and studied the photos and asked the same questions about Tameka and her children.

"How old are her sons?"

"Seventeen, fifteen, and thirteen."

"Anything wrong with them?"

As if he expected something to be wrong.

"No. They're healthy."

"Her daughter?"

"She would've been ten."

Russell looked up.

"
Would
have been?"

"She's dead."

"Dead? The dossier says she's alive."

"Hollis must've missed her death certificate. Maybe because of Katrina, all the lost records. She had sickle cell anemia. They tried experimental treatments a few years back, but she died a year ago. Stroke."

Russell shook his head.

"Three women," Andy said. "And three sick kids. That's odd, don't you think?"

"That's bad luck."

"Russell, is there something you're not telling me?"

"About what?"

"About these women."

"Such as?"

"Such as, Tameka Evans is a poor black woman who didn't get past the ninth grade. You're a billionaire genius. I can't picture you two dating."

They stared each other down a moment, then Russell's face sagged. He exhaled.

"We didn't date, Andy. I bought her for a night in New Orleans, okay? When I was young. I'm not proud of it."

Andy hadn't figured on that.

"Look, Andy, all I know about these women is that years ago I had a brief connection with each of them. And today they need my help. So I'm going to help them. Now, do you want to help me help them or not?"

Andy thought of Tameka Evans on her front porch, crying over her dead daughter.

"Yeah, I want to help you."

The next day Andy flew back to New Orleans and gave Tameka Evans a cashier's check for $1 million.

Every other day, Andy arrived at his office to find another dossier from Hollis McCloskey waiting for him. He flew to Seattle and found Beverly Greer; her last-known address had been in Denver, but she had since moved to Seattle. Andy took photos and returned to Austin and met with Russell.

"How old?"

"Thirty-five."

"Her boy?"

"Nine."

"What's wrong with him?"

An expectation now.

"Optic nerve hypoplasia. He's blind."

Andy flew to Dallas and found Pam Ward, who had moved there from L.A. He took photos and met with Russell.

"She's thirty-two."

"The girl?"

"Eleven."

"What's wrong with her?"

"Batten disease."

Andy flew to Miami and found Sylvia Gutierrez. Then he met with Russell.

"She's thirty-eight and her son is fifteen."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Seizures, from a head injury playing football."

Andy flew first class, he rented luxury vehicles, he stayed in five-star hotels and ordered room service; he found more women with sick children; he delivered a cashier's check to each woman for $1 million. They cried; he cried. Andy Prescott was being paid well to do good. He felt like Robin Hood, except he wasn't having to steal from the rich. The rich guy was just giving it away.

But the expense-account lifestyle had grown less exciting with each passing day; Andy had come to dread meeting another desperate woman with another sick child. Six old girlfriends … six sick children. What were the odds? When his rich client had called that morning about the delay in finding the seventh woman, Andy had decided it was time to find out what the hell was going on. Russell Reeves had sent the limo.

Darrell did not say a word on the ride over. He did not jump out of the driver's seat and run around to open the back door for Andy. He just stopped under the porte-cochere at Russell Reeves' lakefront mansion and waited for Andy to get out. Then he drove off.

Jerk.

Andy walked to the door and rang the doorbell. A middle-aged Latino woman opened the door. It was just after noon.

"Mr. Prescott?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Please come in."

Andy stepped into a magnificent marble foyer.

"Mr. Reeves, he is on a conference call. He said he will be with you shortly. Would you like a refreshment?"

"I'm good."