The Common Lawyer

NINE

Cactus chandeliers, metal tables and chairs, a neon Budweiser sign, and Mexican movie posters constituted the decor of Guero's back room. Andy Prescott scanned the crowd. The room was noisy with conversation and the clinking of beer bottles and silverware against white porcelain plates piled high with enchiladas and tacos, flautas and fajitas, refried beans and Spanish rice. All of SoCo had packed into the back room that evening: homeowners and the homeless, renters and roommates, shop owners and tattoo artists, students and professors, male and female, straight and gay, white, brown, black, and Asian; and their tattoos. A room full of wackos and weirdos-at least that's what the people north of the river would call them.

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.