The Common Lawyer (9 page)

"City of Austin versus Doris Sullivan."

Andy's first case. He leaned toward Britney.

"Wait here till your case is called."

He stood and walked up to the bench. He winked at the municipal prosecutor, Denise L. (for luscious) Manning; she was two years out of UT law school, pretty, and held the promise of passionate love-making. She ignored Andy. The judge did not.

"Mr. Prescott, you're late again."

"I must say, Your Honor, you're looking quite lovely this morning."

"Save the flattery, Mr. Prescott. It doesn't work with me."

But her lips formed a slight smile, as if she just couldn't help herself. Judge Judith was mid-fifties, black, and tough as nails. But she had a soft spot for the losers of the world who appeared before her daily, including Andy. She put her hand over the microphone in front of her.

"Trail biking again, Andy?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you okay?"

"Concussion and possible brain damage, but nothing serious."

A bigger smile.

"Anytime you're ready, Judge, I'll show you the trails."

"Not in this life, Andy." Back to the microphone. "Mr. Prescott, is your client present?"

Andy looked out on the sea of faces as if his client would stand and come forward. Of course, she wouldn't. She wasn't there. None of his clients were there. He never asked his clients to attend their trials or even told them the trial date. It was a waste of time. If the cop didn't show, the city could not make its case and the ticket would be dismissed; the defendant's testimony would not be required. If the cop did show, Andy would have to make good on his guarantee.

"Judge, perhaps Ms. Manning should go forward with her prosecution."

The judge turned to the city prosecutor.

"Ms. Manning?"

Ms. Manning shrugged her narrow little shoulders.

"My witness isn't here."

"Case dismissed."

They followed the same script for Andy's first four cases. His fifth case was called—"City of Austin versus Donna Faulkner"—and someone changed the script without notifying him.

"Your Honor," the prosecutor said, "the issuing officer is present."

Andy faced Ms. Manning. "
The cop showed?
"

She was grinning. "Can you believe it?"

No, he couldn't believe it. Andy turned to the spectator section. A bald paunchy guy in a blue Austin PD uniform stood and walked up to them.

Andy said, "You showed up?"

The cop gave Andy a warm police officer smile.

"I always show up. I just sit here and read all day." He held up a book:
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
"Easy money."

Easy money. Andy wanted to say, "I'll show you easy money," and whack the cop upside the head with the book, but given it was a
Harry Potter,
the sheer weight of the thing would probably kill him.

The judge administered the oath to Officer Bobby Joe Jack, then Ms. Manning elicited his testimony that he had issued a ticket to Donna Faulkner two years before for driving sixty through a residential zone with a maximum allowed speed of thirty miles per hour and for running a stop sign. The applicable fine was $501.

Andy was sweating bullets now and not just because he had never before cross-examined a witness. He was sweating because his net cash assets totaled $27, two hundred dollars more if he won Britney's case. He did not have $501. He could not fulfill his guarantee to Donna Faulkner. He could not lose her case.

"Your witness, Mr. Prescott."

Judge Judith gave Andy a sympathetic expression. She was feeling his pain. But Andy Prescott wasn't going to pay out money he didn't have without a fight.

"Officer Bobby Joe Jack … you do realize you have three first names?"

"What?"

"Do you remember issuing this ticket?"

"I sure do."

"How many tickets have you issued in the last two years?"

"Hundreds."

"Two years and hundreds of tickets later, but you specifically recall issuing this ticket to Ms. Faulkner?"

"Yes, I do."

"And why is that?"

"Because of certain unique identifying characteristics."

"Which were?"

"Her headlights."

"Her
headlights?
Why would you remember her headlights?"

"Because they were really special."

"Special headlights? Were they Bi-Xenon?"

"What?"

"Officer Jack, I don't understand your testimony. You were driving behind Ms. Faulkner when you pulled her over, correct?"

"Yes."

"Then you got out of your cruiser and walked to the driver's side window, correct?"

"Yes."

"So when did you see her headlights?"

"When she rolled her window down."

"But how could you see her headlights from that vantage point?"

"I was looking right down at them."

"You were looking right down at them … ?"

Officer Bobby Joe Jack grinned. Andy shook his head.

"I see," Andy said. "And by headlights, you're referring to Ms. Faulkner's breasts, is that correct?"

"She was wearing a very low-cut shirt."

"Did you look at her face?"

"Sure."

"How old was she?"

Officer Jack consulted his citation.

"License said twenty-two."

"What color was her hair?"

"License said brown."

"What do you say?"

"Must've been brown."

"Officer Jack, how often are driver's licenses in Texas re-issued?"

"Every six years."

"Are you married?"

"Yes."

"Does your wife color her hair?"

"All the time."

"More often than once every six years?"

"Seems like every other week."

"So Ms. Faulkner might have had brown hair when you issued the ticket but blonde hair today?"

Officer Jack shrugged. "Sure."

Andy addressed the judge. "Your Honor, may my client come forward now?"

Judge Judith nodded. Andy turned to the spectator pews and motioned to Britney Banks, the UT student, to come forward. She glanced around as if he had meant someone else, then stood and walked forward. She was frowning.

"Please stand in front of the witness," Andy said. To the witness he said, "Officer Jack, this is my client." Which wasn't a lie; she was his client, just not his client on this ticket. "Do you remember issuing that ticket to this woman?"

Officer Bobby Joe Jack's eyes locked onto Britney Banks' breasts like a hungry infant.

"Yep, that's them. No question about it."

"Officer Jack, you're making a positive identification that you gave this ticket to my client based upon her headli— … her breasts?"

"Can I do that?"

"Officer Jack, you're sure this is the woman you gave the ticket to?"

He again addressed her breasts.

"Absolutely positive."

Andy turned to Judge Judith. "Your Honor, this woman is my client, but not on this ticket. Her name is Britney Banks, not Donna Faulkner." To Officer Jack: "Sorry, but you've identified the wrong set of headlights."

"You sure?"

Judge Judith had had enough. "Case dismissed."

Officer Jack stared at Britney's breasts as he walked past her. She gave him a dirty look. Fortunately, Officer Bobby Joe Jack wasn't in SoCo; stare at a womyn's breasts in SoCo and she'll drive her knee into your nuts so hard you'll be able to hit higher notes than Celine Dion.

Since Britney was already standing there, Judge Judith called her case next. Her cop didn't show. The judge dismissed the ticket then put her hand over the microphone.

"See you next Monday, Andy. Try to be on time. And get a haircut, okay?"

Cut his hair and risk death or serious bodily injury on the trails? Not a chance.

"Yes, ma'am."

Britney said thanks, took a handful of his business cards for her sorority sisters, and bopped out of the courtroom. Her Z was safe for now. Andy passed out cards to the waiting defendants on his way out of the courtroom. It wasn't exactly mergers and acquisitions, but it paid the bills. Almost.

Five clients would be very happy when Andy told them their tickets had been dismissed. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number for Doris Sullivan.

Ten blocks due north, in the offices of the Russell and Kathryn Reeves Foundation on the top floor of the Reeves Research Institute located on the University of Texas campus, Doris Sullivan was sitting behind her desk when her cell phone rang. She pulled her purse from a lower drawer and fished the phone out.

"Hello."

The voice on the phone: "Is this Doris Sullivan?"

"Yes."

"Ms. Sullivan, this is Andy Prescott."

"Who?"

"Andy Prescott, your lawyer."

"My
lawyer?
"

"The traffic ticket on South Congress? Two years ago?"

"Oh, yes, I remember now."

Two years before, an Austin cop had stopped Doris for speeding down the 1500 block of South Congress Avenue; she had pulled into one of the angled parking spaces along Congress. The cop gave her a ticket for driving fifty in a thirty-five zone, a $240 fine. She had unwisely asked why he was wasting his time on speeders instead of dealing with the real criminals in Austin; he had added a reckless driving citation, an additional $200 fine. If she had told the cop who she worked for, he would have torn up the ticket and apologized. But her boss wouldn't have approved of her using his name to pull strings. So she had sat silent while the cop wrote the ticket.

When the cop drove away, she had stewed in her car; her insurance premiums would double. When her anger had subsided, she noticed the sign on the door directly in front of her: TRAFFIC TICKETS. She climbed the stairs to the little office and hired Andy Prescott, Attorney-at-Law. She paid him $100 cash, and he gave her a guarantee: her ticket would be dismissed or he would pay the fine.

"The ticket was dismissed this morning."

"So it won't be on my record?"

"No, ma'am."

"My premiums won't go up?"

"Not from this ticket."

"Well, thank you, Andy."

"You're welcome."

She hung up, dropped the phone into her purse, and shut the drawer. She was smiling when she turned and saw Russell Reeves standing there with another armload of medical journals.

"Your lawyer? Is something wrong, Doris?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Reeves. Just a traffic ticket."

She tried not to laugh as she recounted the story, including SoCo's version of Clarence Darrow.

"He was wearing jeans and sneakers and a clip-on tie, said he was headed to traffic court—on a bicycle. His office, it's no bigger than a closet and it's above a tattoo parlor—tattoos and tickets. His desk was a card table. He had a motorcycle poster on the wall next to his diploma. I'm pretty sure he didn't graduate at the top of his class." She shook her head. "But he got the ticket dismissed."

Mr. Reeves now had an odd expression on his face, as if he had just experienced another epiphany.

"A traffic ticket lawyer in SoCo?"

"Yes, sir."

"He offices above a tattoo parlor?"

"Yes, sir."

"His name is Andy Prescott?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Reeves' eyes drifted off her, and he said, "He's perfect."

He walked toward his office but abruptly turned back.

"Call Darrell. Tell him to have the car out front in ten minutes."

Doris Sullivan picked up the phone but thought, Perfect for
what?

FIVE

Andy was in no hurry to get back to the office. He never had appointments; his clients just dropped in (usually right after having been ticketed) or left their tickets and $100 bills with Ramon. And Britney's $200 was burning a hole in his pocket. So he had decided to eat lunch at Whole Foods, check out the bikes at REI, and then pay a visit to his mother.

He turned the Huffy west on Sixth Street at the Texas Lottery Headquarters—gambling was illegal in Texas unless the profits went to the state—and gave a wide berth to a mentally ill man wandering aimlessly and obviously talking to God because no one else was listening. A block down, he waved at a pretty young woman in a blue dress pedaling a bike. The breeze blew her dress up to her thighs; she had nice thighs.

Live-music clubs, shot bars, pubs, and lounges lined both sides of Sixth Street from the interstate to Congress Avenue—places like Bourbon Rocks, Blind Pig, Agave, Pure, and Peckerheads—and had earned Austin top ranking as the hardest drinking city in America. The street sat silent and seedy-looking that morning, but nights had become notoriously raucous with punks, panhandlers, and binge-drinking college kids puking on the sidewalks.
God, those were the days.
Sixth Street had seemed sane back when Andy was one of those UT students; at twenty-nine, it seemed insane. At his age, he just wanted to drink Coronas at Güero's.