The Common Lawyer (35 page)

"You're a lucky girl, Jessie. I've been stuck with the same name my whole life."

"Esmeralda was my favorite name. Esmeralda Bustamante."

"Why's that?"

"When I said it, it was like I was singing."

Paul sang: "Esmeralda, Esmeralda, my sweet Esmeralda … You're right, it is a song. You like to sing?"

"It's my dream. I want to be a country singer, like Carrie Underwood."

"Well, now, that little gal can sing. Can you?"

Frankie said, "It's nice out here."

They had come outside looking for Andy's father and her daughter and so Frankie could smoke. Andy tossed a stick for Max to fetch. The dog shot off and returned with a stick—but not the same stick.

"We haven't had a real home in three years. Before that we lived with Mickey, which didn't make for a great home life for either of us. It's nice to see a normal family."

"Us? Normal? An alcoholic country-western singer waiting for a liver transplant, a leftist art history professor who's been arrested for protesting wars and football God knows how many times, and a traffic ticket lawyer who rides a trail bike? What's normal about that?"

"No one's getting drunk and hitting each other."

"The Prescotts are a non-violent people. You want to see my mom's studio?"

"Sure."

They walked into the barn and back to the studio. Frankie studied the clay angel sculpture.

"She's good."

"So are you."

"This was my dream—my own studio, a place to draw and paint and sculpt." She was quiet. "Just wasn't meant to be."

"You're only twenty-eight, Frankie. Your life's not over."

"I've got a billionaire chasing me. It might be."

"I'm here."

"Yes, you are. And so am I. And Jessie. We're all here, Andy."

"I'm sorry, Frankie."

They went outside and saw Jessie running toward them. She didn't look like a kid with a ticking time bomb inside her.

"Mom!"

His father followed behind.

"Paul's going to teach me to play the guitar."

"That's great, honey."

His father arrived and said, "This little gal, she can sing."

"That's her dream."

Paul Prescott patted Jessie on the head. "Let's go pick some tomatoes for dinner. My tomatoes are as red as your hair. Where'd you get that red from? Not your mama."

"Red hair is recessive, Dad."

He gave Andy a funny look. "Okay."

Jessie and his father headed over to the garden.

"I'd better help," Frankie said.

She followed them. Andy watched after her a moment, then went back up to the house. He walked through the back door just as his mother entered through the front door with Earth-friendly canvas grocery bags in each arm. He took them from her, and they walked into the kitchen.

"I stopped at Whole Foods on the way home," she said. "Thought we'd have salmon. Where are they?"

"Picking tomatoes."

She walked onto the back porch and looked out toward the garden.

"How old is the girl? Eight, nine?"

"Eight."

"And her mother?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Oh, I saw your girlfriend, the blonde. At Whole Foods. She was talking to a guy."

"Who?"

"I didn't ask."

"Did he look like a lawyer?"

"Now that you mention it, he did."

"Richard Olson. He drives a Porsche."

"What's going on, Andy? With them?"

Paul Prescott said, "He gave you tickets to the biggest game of the year? Good Lord, don't tell your mother. What'd he want from you?"

"I already gave it to him. That's why they're here."

Frankie and Jessie had gone upstairs to clean up before dinner. Andy had parked the Toyota in the barn and was walking up to the house with his father. They found his mother in the kitchen, and Andy told them the rest of the story: his trips to Boston and Montana, Hollis McCloskey and Lorenzo Escobar, and the DNA from the Band-Aid.

"He thinks Jessie is his daughter."

"Is she?"

"The DNA says yes."

"What does Frankie say?"

"She says no."

"I figure the mother would know."

"He says she might have the same cancer gene he gave his son. Says he just wants to save her from Zach's fate. Why would he lie about that?"

Andy's cell phone rang; it was Russell Reeves. He went out onto the back porch and answered.

"Andy, have you found her?"

"Not yet."

"Why's it taking so long?"

"She's smart, Russell. She knows we're looking for her. How's Zach?"

"Not good."

"Tell him hi for me."

"Come tell him yourself."

"I will."

There was silence on the line.

"Russell?"

"Andy, you're not lying to me, are you?"

"No. I'm gonna come see Zach."

"About Frankie."

"Russell, I'm your lawyer."

"You didn't answer my question."

"No. I'm not lying."

He was lying about not lying. Tres was right. Everyone lies.

"Hurry, Andy."

He hung up and went back inside.

"Reeves?" his father said.

Andy nodded. "I can hold him off for a day or two, but he'll figure out I'm lying. Then he'll come for her. Frankie. We'll move on in a few days."

"We?"

"I'm responsible for them now. I found them."

"Well, he'll never find them here."

"Dad, I've learned a few things about finding people. First thing they'll do is search the property tax records for 'Prescott.' "

"This land belongs to your mother, Andy. It's under her maiden name—Warren, not Prescott. They can stay here as long as they want. Be nice to have some company."

Harmon and Cecil walked into the tattoo parlor at 1514 South Congress. BODY ART BY RAMON. A Mexican wearing a white muscle T-shirt was sitting in front of a computer screen and tapping the keys.

"You Ramon?"

"Yep."

"I'm looking for Andy Prescott. You know him?"

"Nope."

"He offices right above you."

"Oh,
that
Andy Prescott. The traffic ticket lawyer. He's never around."

"What's he look like, this Prescott?"

"Six-four, black hair, fat."

"What does he drive?"

"A Buick."

Harmon walked out and snorted. "You see that guy? Tattoos all over his body?"

Cecil nodded. "He could play for the Knicks."

Jean Prescott was tending to the salmon, Andy and Frankie were setting the table for dinner, and Paul was teaching Jessie a few chords on the guitar on the back porch. Andy could hear their voices in the kitchen.

"Sing this, honey."

His father played a few notes, then her singing voice came through: "Honky-tonk heroes, we're a dying breed now, the world's gone corporate and the music has too …"

Her voice was strong and full and good. Paul Prescott came into the kitchen carrying his guitar.

"Jean, you hear this girl sing? She's the real deal. We got us a country singer."

Jessie followed.

"Paul, you're not teasing me, are you?"

"About what, honey?"

"About me being a country singer."

"Honey, I never tease about dreams. Sing it again."

He played and she sang.

"Honky-tonk heroes, we're a dying breed now …"

And his father joined in.

"The world's gone corporate and the music has too …"

They sang until dinner.

"We've had to move around," Frankie said. "Montana, New Mexico, West Texas. We hoped this would be our last move. "

"Well," his father said, "we've been here thirty-five years now. Jean inherited this land before we got married." He winked at Frankie. "I married her for her land."

"I married him to feed the birds," his mother said. "Andy says you're an artist."

"I want to be an artist."

"I'd like to see your portfolio."

"Really? It's upstairs."

"After dinner, then."

His father looked over at Jessie. "You like that salmon? You'd better say yes, or Jean'll make you eat tofu tomorrow."

"Is that Chinese food?"

"Should be."

Two hours later, Andy found his mother on the back porch with a glass of wine. His father was already in bed; Frankie and Jessie were getting ready for bed. Andy sat next to her.

"I'm going to miss that man," she said.

Andy felt the tears come again, so he didn't speak. They sat silently and listened to the night sounds and felt the soft breeze up from the creek.

"I remember sitting on this porch when I was a young girl, wondering what the man I would marry would be like. I never pictured Paul Prescott. But when I saw him that night at the Broken Spoke, those blue eyes, I fell hard for him. Thirty-five years later, I'm still falling."

"Dave's folks are divorced, Tres' would be except for the trust fund—why'd it work for you and Dad?"

"Because we each have our own life, and a life we share. We never tried to change each other. And we both understand that a life without passion isn't much of a life. It's like a movie—a pretense of life. We've had a real life."

Andy took her hand and squeezed it. She patted his.

"I knew it would happen."

"What?"

"You'd bring a girl home to meet your mother. I was hoping Mary Margaret wouldn't be the last one."

"Hey, she was hot—for a fourth-grader."

"Frankie's a better fit for you."

"Than Mary Margaret?"

"Than those Whole Foods girls."

"It's not like that, Mom. Between us."

"I saw the way you look at her … and the way she looks at you."

"I think that's the urge to kill."

She smiled. "I don't think so." She picked up Frankie's portfolio. "No training and she can do this? She's a natural."

"She hasn't had many breaks in life."

"Her life isn't over." She sipped her wine. "It's good they're here. Your father was more alive today than he's been in a year. That twinkle was back in those blue eyes."

Andy thought about life without Paul Prescott. His and hers.

"Mom, can I get a ride into town with you tomorrow? My bike's at the loft."

She nodded. "Come by the office. I've got tickets."

In the penthouse at the Austin General Hospital, Kathryn Reeves grabbed her husband's shirt and screamed, "Save him, Russell! Save him! Don't let him die!"

Zach had slipped into a coma.

And Russell's wife was slipping into a nervous breakdown. He had found her crying in the bathroom and holding a pair of scissors. He had taken the scissors from her. She had slapped his face.

"You're a goddamn billionaire! Do something!"

"I'll save him, Kathryn. I'll find a way."

Russell Reeves had never felt more desperate in his life.

TWENTY-ONE

Harmon Payne's cell phone rang. It was the boss.

"Harmon, fifteen-fourteen-and-a-half South Congress, the lawyer's office—it's owned by Ramon Cabrera. He knows Andy Prescott. And Prescott was admitted to the ER at an Austin hospital a couple years back, some kind of biking accident. Records show he's five-ten, not six-four."

"You got a photo?"

"Not yet."

"Get one."

Harmon hung up and sighed. He and Cecil were eating breakfast in the hotel restaurant.

"The Mexican—the tattoo guy—he lied to me."

Cecil swallowed and said, "Whoops."

At that moment, Andy was riding the Stumpjumper south on Congress Avenue across Lady Bird Lake. His mother had dropped him off at the Fifth Street loft on her way in to UT. He had showered and changed clothes. He considered having breakfast at Whole Foods, but he didn't really want to see Suzie or Bobbi. Only Frankie and Jessie mattered now. He pulled over at Jo's and went up to the window.

"Still waiting for you to ride up on an IronHorse, Andy."

Guillermo grabbed a banana nut muffin from the display and poured a large coffee. He nodded at the Stumpjumper.

"Can't believe you haven't crashed it yet."

"Haven't had time to take it out."

"Man, you must be suffering adrenaline withdrawal."