The Common Lawyer

by Mark Gimenez

  Andy called them his friends.

  It was two weeks later, and they had all come to see Russell Reeves' plans for their neighborhood and to hear Andy Prescott explain why those plans were good for SoCo-Reeves was renovating, not developing- and to drink Coronas and margaritas and eat Mexican food for free. Russell's secretary had sent over a blank check to cover the night's expenses.

  The artist's rendition of the town house project was displayed on one easel and the architectural plans on another. The locals were studying the plans and arguing over the future of SoCo. But on their faces was the knowledge that they no longer controlled SoCo's future.

  The money did.

  Andy rapped a fork against a beer bottle and whistled loudly to quiet the room. When the noise subsided, he said, "So, guys, what do you think?"

  Rodney (Ph. D. in English, adjunct faculty member at UT, worked at a bookstore) said, "Andy, what's to prevent Reeves from changing his mind and putting up an office building instead of low-income housing?"

  "Zoning. It'll be changed from commercial to multi-family residential with a special use permit that allows only low-income housing."

  LuAnn (nose ring, tattoos, M.A. in sociology): "How are you going to choose who gets in?"

  "I'm not. We are. It'll be a co-op with rules to keep the place nice. There'll be a lottery among current SoCo residents who apply. There'll be criminal background checks-not drug use-but dealing and violent crimes. We all want this to be a safe place for the residents."

  Zelda (struggling artist, part-time masseuse): "How much will rent be?"

  "Three hundred to a thousand, depending on your income."

  Gustavo (dreadlocks, tattoo of Our Lady of Guadalupe across his back, limo driver): "Noticed you got a new bike sitting out front there. Russell Reeves' money buy that?"

  "Gus, I wouldn't sell out SoCo for a trail bike."

  "What about an IronHorse? Would you sell us out for a Slammer?"

  "I'd sell my soul for a Slammer." Everyone laughed. "But I wouldn't sell out SoCo. This is my home, too."

  "You sold out your hair, Samson."

  "Gus, my hair, it's not as important to me as your dreads, okay?"

  "Point is, Andy, his money's changing you. And his money's gonna change SoCo."

  "Yes, it is, Gus. For the better."

  "A developer's gonna make SoCo better? Man, I can't believe you're lawyering for a developer."

  "He's not a developer. He's a renovator. "

  Ray (taking a break from the Great American Novel): "Andy, it's hard for us to trust someone north of the river who says he wants to make SoCo a better place. Every time they come down here, they just want to make money."

  "That's why I've fought those developments with you, Ray. With all of you. But Russell's doing this through his foundation. It's a charitable organization. Not all rich guys are bad, Ray."

  "Not when they're paying you."

  "Yes, Ray, I'm getting paid."

  "By a developer."

  "By a renovator."

  "By a rich guy north of the river."

  "Yes, he lives north of the river. But look what he did in East Austin. Look what he's done for all of Austin. He's in the business of giving his money away. And now he's trying to give it away down here in SoCo, and you want us to say no? We've been trying to get the city to do this for years. Now Russell Reeves wants to do it and you're balking? Would you rather have that vacant grocery store? Guys, I wouldn't tell you we should do this if I didn't believe it. There's no ulterior motive here."

  Helping them helped him.

  LuAnn: "Andy's right."

  "Guys, we've been through this before. Apartment rents in SoCo run fifteen hundred for a one-bedroom, two thousand for a two-bedroom. With regular developments, the city tries to get ten percent of the units designated as affordable housing, and that's at eighty percent of median family income, but the developers always balk and the city always backs down. This project is one hundred percent affordable housing at fifty percent median income. Who else would do this kind of deal except a billionaire who doesn't need to make money?"

  A grudging murmur of acknowledgment from the crowd.

  "Russell Reeves is going to give us affordable housing-that's what we've always wanted. Are you going to turn it down because he lives north of the river? Because he's rich? Guys, he hates Republicans! And he's thinking about getting a tattoo! He's one of us!"

  Gus: "Only difference is, he's got billions. We don't."

  Ramon Cabrera banged a beer bottle against a tin chip bowl.

  "Yo, people! This ain't rocket science. It's an easy decision: Do you trust Andy? I do. I vote in favor of Russell Reeves' development."

  "Renovation," Andy said.

  "Whatever."

  Floyd T. said, "And tell him thanks for the food."

  An hour later, the crowd voted unanimously in favor of Russell Reeves' plans for SoCo.

  "Dude, these are good. You want one?"

  The downtown lawyer sitting across the table lifted his eyes and gave Andy Prescott a "God bless the children" smile, then shook his head and returned to the stack of documents in front of him. Andy shrugged and thought, More for me.

  He was getting down on the fresh chocolate-chip cookies the title company had set out in a little bowl in the center of the conference room table. They were free. His only regret was that he didn't have a glass of milk to dip them in.

  A week to the day after the neighborhood meeting at Guero's, Andy Prescott was sitting in a cushy leather chair at a long wood table in the fancy offices of a title company in downtown Austin; the place smelled like a new luxury car, leathery and rich. He was eating cookies and about to close the first real-estate transaction of his legal career.

  Russell Reeves' downtown lawyers had drafted the documents, reviewed title and survey, and obtained city approval for the low-income housing. His in-house accountant had wired $4 million to Andy's new trust account; he had never had a trust account before because he had never received a retainer in excess of $100. Russell's lawyers had done all the legal work, but Andy was the front man. The face of SoCo. He was Russell Reeves' lawyer south of the river.

  Even though he was now sitting north of the river.

  The title company agent sat at the end of the table and the seller's lawyer across the table. He was a partner in a downtown firm; he was wearing a slick suit and a confident expression as he flipped through the documents. Andy was wearing his traffic court outfit: blue sports coat, jeans, wrinkled shirt, clip-on tie, and Converse sneakers.

  Reeves and the seller had already signed; the closing was about the lawyers dotting i's and crossing t's and swapping legal documents for legal tender. Andy felt like he should be doing something, so he started flipping through his stack of documents, too. The documents looked professional with indemnities and representations and warranties. Andy had taken a real-estate course in law school, but he had never once drafted a deed.

  Damn.

  Some of the chocolate on his fingers had rubbed off on the bright white paper of the top document. Andy glanced around for a napkin, but he didn't see one. So he licked his finger and tried to rub the chocolate off, but only succeeded in smearing it across the page. Just as he was going back down with a rewetted finger, the title agent said, "Andy, are you okay with the form of the Affidavit as to Debts, Liens and Possession?"

  Andy vaguely remembered seeing a document with that title.

  "Uh, yeah, sure."

  He had no idea what he had just agreed to. He knew it, and she knew it. But neither of them cared. She cared about the $22,777 title insurance premium her company would pocket; he cared about the $800 he would pocket for this two-hour closing spent eating cookies. Ka-ching! God, is this how it worked for downtown lawyers? It was a freaking cash register, this billable-hour scheme. Only a lawyer could have dreamed it up.

  He could get used to this, the life of a big-time lawyer.

  An hour later, when he walked out of the
title company with a half dozen cookies in his coat pocket for Floyd T. and Ramon, Andy stood a moment on the sidewalk and basked in the warmth of the September sun. He had wired the $4 million from his trust account to the title company's bank account; he had taken the deed to the land; he had closed his first major legal transaction.

  For the first time in his life, Andy Prescott felt like a success.

  TEN

  Kelly Fitzgerald always felt a bit stupid, a nurse smoking on the job. She had tried to quit, but she could not beat her addiction. Still, she was down to two cigarettes per shift. And she never allowed her craving to interfere with her patient care. It was 3:00 A.M. and all the patients on Three West were asleep. Five minutes off the floor wouldn't harm anyone. She had ducked out the back door of the hospital to grab a quick smoke and was almost finished when the door behind her opened, and a man in a suit walked outside.

  "Ms. Fitzgerald?"

  "Yes."

  The man flashed a badge. "I'm Agent Smith, FBI."

  She laughed. "And I'm the president."

  "What?"

  "Take your store-bought badge and your game somewhere else."

  "Pardon me?"

  "Try another line."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "What I'm talking about is, I'm an Irish girl married to a cop, my two brothers are New York City cops, and my father was a cop. You're not a cop. You're a lawyer."

  The man seemed disappointed.

  "How'd you know?"

  "Cops don't say 'pardon me.' "

  "I knew that wasn't good as soon as I said it." The man sighed. "Okay. I'm a lawyer."

  "And use a better name-I mean, Smith? "

  "That is my real name."

  "Oh. Well, Lawyer Smith, what do you want?"

  "You were the night-shift charge nurse on Third Floor West three years ago?"

  "Yes."

  "You attended Dr. Falco's patients?"

  "Why are you asking?"

  "We're looking for one of his patients."

  "Who?"

  "Patient X."

  Kelly took a slow drag on the cigarette and exhaled. The smoke hung like a gray cloud in the cool night air.

  "I guess you would be looking for her. Kind of surprised it took this long."

  "She's in hiding."

  "She would be."

  "So she just walked out of here three years ago? What kind of security do you have here?"

  "You got in easy enough."

  "And she's never been seen since?"

  Kelly had been on duty that night. Falco had not been pleased to find his prized patient missing the next morning.

  "No."

  "We don't want to harm her."

  "You want to use her, like Falco."

  "All I need is the woman's name."

  Kelly turned to the lawyer. "The woman's name?"

  "Yes."

  Kelly's mind raced. She bought time with another long drag on the cigarette. She exhaled again.

  "I never knew her real name. Falco was paranoid."

  "Ms. Fitzgerald, she won't be harmed in any way. We just need to find her and talk to her. We will pay her well. And we will pay you well for her name. One million dollars, Ms. Fitzgerald. For her name."

  "I don't know her name."

  "Two million."

  "Goodbye."

  Kelly dashed the cigarette on the iron railing, flicked the butt into the garden, and walked back inside; but she thought, What is his game?

  The next morning, Dennis Lott sat behind his desk. He would soon be fired as administrator of the hospital. He was sure of that. He had been hired two years ago, just six months before Tony Falco had jumped ship for that Chinese research institute. It was like getting the last berth on the Titanic.

  Falco had left, and the research grants had followed. Dennis was now the administrator of a research hospital without funds to conduct research. The money followed the name scientists like groupies followed rock stars. Falco was a star.

  Dennis Lott was not.

  He had been completely unsuccessful in attracting new scientists and funding to the hospital. So the board of trustees would soon find another administrator who might prove more successful. Dennis figured he had two months, at the longest. This was his fifth hospital. There would not be a sixth.

  Ellen, his secretary, knocked lightly on the door and entered. She shut the door behind her.

  "Mr. Lott, there's a gentleman here to see you. A Mr. Smith."

  "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!"

  T
he 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.