The Common Lawyer

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."

"I do miss the rush."

Guillermo stuck his fist out; Andy gave him a fist-punch.

"Keep the faith, bro."

He sat down at a table and ate the muffin. The Jo's regulars were all present and accounted for, but Andy felt like a stranger in SoCo. His life had irrevocably changed the moment Russell Reeves walked into his office ten weeks before. He had been Andy Prescott, traffic ticket lawyer; now he was Andy Prescott, Russell Reeves' lawyer. He had been happy; now he had money. He had had a simple life; now he had a complicated life. None of this made sense. The DNA was Frankie's, not Jessie's. So why did Russell think she was his daughter? Andy felt a sense of impending doom, the same sensation he experienced when he was about to crash on the trails. Nothing psychic, just a feeling. A bad feeling.

He glanced around.

Ray, Darla, Oscar, George, Dwight… no one he didn't recognize. No one without a tattoo; only members of the tribe. He grabbed the coffee and saddled up on the Stumpjumper. He rode down the avenue to his office. It was only nine, but Ramon was already at work. Andy went inside the tattoo parlor.

"What are you doing here so early?" he said.

Ramon gestured at his table where the coed with the "Yellow Rose of Texas" on her left buttock was lying face down, iPod buds in her ears, eyes closed, and bare butt exposed.

"Appointment. She's got an afternoon class. Wants a matching rose on her right butt."

"Try not to enjoy yourself too much."

"I think she's sleeping. Oh, he was here looking for you."

"Reeves?"

"That ape that drives him."

"Darrell? He was here without Russell?"

Ramon nodded. "Said, 'I'll be back,' like that Terminator dude."

Russell Reeves had left three messages for Andy that morning on his cell phone. Andy needed to call his client, but he wasn't a very good liar.

"Tickets on the counter," Ramon said.

Four tickets with four $100 bills sat on the counter. Which reminded Andy: his mother had tickets for him, too.

"And two other guys were looking for you yesterday," Ramon said. "Not locals."

"How do you know?"

"Shiny suits and accents. I lied, said I didn't know you."

"Thanks."

"You want me to tell the ape I seen you?"

"No. Or those other guys."

Harmon and Cecil pulled into a parking spot in front of the tattoo parlor just as a kid wearing jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt came out the door, jumped on a bike, and rode off.

"He's about five-ten," Cecil said.

"Cecil, you ever know a lawyer who rode a bike?"

"Good point."

They got out and walked into the parlor. The Mexican named Ramon was hunched over a girl's bare butt with a tattoo needle in his right hand. Without looking up, he said, "Help you?"

"Ramon," Harmon said, "you lied to me."

The Mexican looked up at Harmon and Cecil standing in his doorway; his expression changed.

"You know Prescott. You're his landlord. And he's not six-four, he's five-ten."

Harmon stepped closer.

The Mexican said, "Hey, I'm working here! Stay out of my sterile field!"

"Where's Prescott?"

"Man, I look like a secretary?"

"You're gonna look like a dead Mexican, you don't tell me where he's at."

The Mexican stood up and stared directly down the barrel of Harmon's brand new Glock.

"Hey, dude-"

" Dude? I look like a dude, Cecil?"

Lorenzo Escobar was cruising south on Congress, the windows down, sipping his Jo's coffee and enjoying the fine November morning, when he came to the tattoo parlor. He slowed. He saw a black Crown Vic parked outside Ramon's shop-the same Crown Vic he had seen there two days before-and two white dudes inside the shop. They didn't look like locals. Lorenzo got a bad feeling so he pulled the Escalade into a slot out front of Allen's Boots a couple of doors down.

Lorenzo cut the engine and got out. The street was quiet that early. He walked along the side of the building until he arrived at Ramon's door. He heard Ramon's nervous voice: "Hey, dude, put the gun down."

Lorenzo peeked inside and saw a tall white male pointing a gun at Ramon; the other man was standing to the side. Lorenzo pulled out his Beretta and chambered a round. He stepped inside with his gun extended.

" Hombre… put the gun down."

The man holding the gun froze. He turned slowly toward Lorenzo and saw the gun pointed at his chest.

"Easy, bro," Lorenzo said. "On the counter."

The white man set his gun on the counter. Lorenzo motioned both men against the wall. Without taking his eyes off them, he said, "What's going on, Ramon?"

"They're looking for Andy."

"That so? What do you want with Andy?"

The tall white man said, "It's a personal matter."

"Is it worth dying for?"

"Perhaps not."

"Good." Lorenzo stood away from the door. "You may leave now. And don't come back."

"Can I have my gun?"

"I don't think so."

The men stepped to the door. The tall man said, "Maybe we'll meet again, Pancho."

Lorenzo smiled. "Bring friends."

The tall man chuckled. "You hear that, Cecil? 'Bring friends,' he says. I like that."

The men walked over to the Crown Vic, got in, and drove off. Lorenzo turned to Ramon, who was wiping sweat from his brow. The girl on the table hadn't budged. She had a nice ass.

Lorenzo said, "Where the hell is Andy?"

Andy rode north on Congress until it dead-ended at Eleventh Street in front of the state capitol. Normally the seven-lane intersection would be crowded with cars and buses and pedestrians trying to cross without getting nailed by a road warrior talking on his cell phone while running a red light; but that day the wide stretch of asphalt was crowded with workers erecting big white circus-like tents for the Texas Book Festival.

The book festival was the biggest cultural event held in Austin each year. The streets had been blocked off in both directions and traffic was being re-routed down side streets. Over the next three days, forty thousand people would pack the festival to enjoy musical performances, learn parenting skills, be entertained by magicians and puppeteers, attend cooking exhibitions, and listen to authors discuss their books. And, of course, Kinky Friedman would make his annual appearance, smoking long cigars and stumping for the governorship or promoting his latest book. Kinky alone was worth the price of admission, which was free.

Andy steered around the yellow barricades and cut through the capitol grounds. The wide checkerboard-patterned sidewalk-known as the "Great Walk"-inclined steadily for five hundred feet to the south entrance of the capitol. He pedaled past grand monuments honoring the Confederate Dead, Terry's Texas Rangers, and Hood's Texas Brigade (all for soldiers who had fought for the Confederacy), two twenty-four-pound cannons (used by the Confederacy), and the Ten Commandments (which said nothing about slavery). He rode around the massive pink granite capitol and gazed up at the Goddess of Liberty hoisting a lone gold star atop the dome.

It always gave him hope.

Four blocks later, Andy entered the UT campus at San Jacinto Street. He pedaled past the Santa Rita No. 1 pump jack and the football stadium. He turned east on Twenty-third Street then north on Trinity Street. He rode across a concrete footbridge leading to the second-floor entrance to the Fine Arts Building, a shortcut to his mother's office. He parked the bike, removed his helmet, and went inside. He jogged down the hall to his mother's office. She was between classes. She stood and hugged him, then gave him the traffic tickets.

"Are you okay, Andy?"

"Not really."

"You don't know whom to believe-your client or Frankie."

"You're smart."

"I have a Ph. D… and Jessie has red hair. Russell Reeves doesn't."

"It's recessive."

"What is?"

"Red hair. Russell says Jessie got it from his mother."

"Why not from Frankie and her ex-husband?"

"Mickey had red hair but Frankie's hair is black. Both parents have to have red hair for their child to have red hair."

"Did you ask her?"

"Ask who what?"

"Frankie, the color of her hair."

"Mom, her hair is black. You saw her yourself."

She smiled. "Andy, we color our hair. Women."

Andy walked out of his mother's office and pulled out his cell phone. He called information for the Boston Grand Hotel. When he was connected, he asked for the bar. Benny the bartender answered.

"Benny, this is Andy Prescott, from Texas."

"The lawyer. Did you find her? Frankie?"

"Yes, I did."

"Is she okay?"

"For now. Benny, when she worked at the bar, what color was her hair?"

"Frankie's? Like I said, she was a good Irish girl. She has flaming red hair."

Russell Reeves had lied.

Andy hung up and hurried down the hall. His phone rang. He stopped and answered. It was Lorenzo.

"Andy, two white dudes pulled a gun on Ramon in his shop, looking for you."

"Jesus. Reeves has gone over the edge."

"Russell Reeves? He's your secret client? That's why you had me check out his mother?"

"Yeah."

"Andy, he's serious. Those two goons, they're professionals, if you know what I mean."

Andy knew what he meant.

"Be careful, bro. I don't want to lose a paying client."

Andy hung up. He put on the helmet and sunglasses and ran to the exit door and outside and right into a brick wall. Darrell's meaty hand clamped down on his arm like an iron vice.

"Mr. Reeves wants to talk to you. In the limo."

The long black limo sat at the curb on Trinity Street. The back window lowered, and Russell's face appeared. Darrell yanked Andy across the footbridge and over to the limo. Darrell released him, but stood within arm's reach. Russell pushed the door open.

"Get in."

Andy held his ground. His client looked as if he hadn't slept in a week.

"You didn't come to see Zach."

"I was coming over there right now."

Another lie. And about Zach.

"Andy… Zach's in a coma."

Andy slumped against the limo.

"Shit. Is he gonna be okay?"

"I don't know. Where's Frankie?"

"Russell, your son's in a coma."

"And my daughter might be next."

"The girl's not yours, Russell. You lied."

"Why would I lie to you?"

"That's what I don't know. But you lied-about the red hair. Frankie has red hair. She dyed it black. The girl got her red hair from her parents, not from your mother. And the blood on that Band-Aid wasn't the girl's-it was Frankie's."

" What? No, that can't be. The DNA was a match."

"You're after Frankie. Did you have Mickey killed to get to her?"

"Who's Mickey?"

"Mickey Doyle. Her ex-husband."

"He's dead?"

"He was murdered in Boston."

"And you think I'm involved?"

"Are you?"

"No."

Andy pointed at Darrell. "Is he?"

"No."

"What about those two goons you sent to Ramon's?"

"What goons?"

"The ones looking for me."

"I found you."

"What about Laurence Smith? He's dead, too."

"Yes, he is."

"Was he trying to find Frankie?"

"Yes, but his death had nothing to do with her. Someone tried to rob him. Look, Andy, you're over-thinking again." He pointed up Trinity Street at the law school sitting on a low rise. "Remember, you were a C student over there."

"I don't test well."

Russell Reeves stared at Andy, and Andy saw in his client's eyes something he had not seen before: desperation.

"Tell me the truth, Russell."

"Andy, the truth is, there's a million dollars in your trust account, for Sally Armstrong in San Diego. You can keep it. Just tell me where Frankie is and you can go on with your life… but with a lot more money."

Andy stared up at the UT clock tower, the white sandstone highlighted against the blue November sky. It was a magnificent sight. At the base of the tower, carved into the south facade of the Main Building, were the words Ye Shall Know The Truth and The Truth Shall Make You Free. What was the truth? The legal truth was simple: Andy Prescott was a lawyer; Russell Reeves was his client. Andy owed a legal duty to Russell to tell him where Frankie was; he had paid for that information. The client was legally entitled to know what his lawyer knew.

What was Frankie entitled to?

Andy Prescott, Attorney-at-Law, owed no legal duty to Frankie Doyle. He wasn't her lawyer; she wasn't his client. She was simply the object of his client's desire, whatever that desire might be. And what a billionaire client desired, his lawyer obtained. That's how the legal system in America worked. For rich people. Who made their lawyers rich. All Andy had to do was tell Russell Reeves what he wanted to know, and he would have one million dollars. More money than he had ever dreamed of having. He would be rich. Suzie, Bobbi, the loft, the life. It would all be his. Forever. All he had to do was tell his client what he knew.

Instead, he ran.

"Andy!"

He ran back across the footbridge, hopped on the bike, and stood on the pedals down the sidewalk along the west side of the building. Darrell gave chase, but he had no foot speed; halfway across the bridge, he turned back. Andy cut through the parking lot to Trinity Street and turned north. He powered up the hill and veered east past the law school; the street turned down, and he picked up speed. At the bottom of the hill, he swerved south on Robert Dedman Drive and sped past the LBJ School.

He heard tires squealing. He glanced back and saw the limo turning behind him. So he turned west on Twenty-third Street and hammered the pavement past the football stadium and across San Jacinto Street. He entered the campus at the East Mall fountain.

From there the land climbed steadily to the clock tower.

Construction on the sloping terrain required concrete retaining walls, which cut the campus into terraces. Andy carried the bike up two flights of concrete steps around the retaining wall on the east side of the fountain; once atop the first terrace, he looked back. The limo screeched to a stop down below. Darrell jumped out and gestured helplessly up at Andy.

They couldn't follow him up there.

He saddled up again but took it easy through the East Mall. He couldn't go fast anyway; fifty thousand students changing classes crowded the sidewalks. He tried to think. He couldn't go back to his office; Russell's goons would be waiting for him. He couldn't even go back to SoCo. But he could go to the loft. Russell didn't know he lived there and had no way of finding out.

Andy was about to turn south and head toward downtown when he heard screams and shouts from behind-"Hey, watch out!" — and now high-pitched buzzing noises, like high-powered weed-whackers… like… motocross bikes. He looked back.

Shit.

Two riders dressed in black and wearing black helmets with dark visors on black dirt bikes were parting the crowd of students like Moses parting the Red Sea in that movie. Kids dove out of their way. They were coming for him. But Andy Prescott had grown up on this campus. He knew every path, walkway, alley, and road on the three hundred and fifty acres.

Andy stood on the pedals past Simkins Hall-named in honor of a former UT law professor and KKK member-and cut between the ROTC indoor rifle range and the old Gregory Gymnasium, bounced hard down onto Speedway Drive, bunny-hopped the curb, whipped around the business school and across Campus Drive, and climbed concrete steps up two more terraces to College Hill. His pistons were burning by the time he arrived at the clock tower. He wiped sweat from his face and looked back.

He saw one dirt bike behind him.

The other rider would try to cut him off heading south toward downtown, so he turned north past the Will C. Hogg Building-Governor James Stephen Hogg had a son he named Will and a daughter he named Ima; is that cruel or what? — and raced around the tower to the West Mall. He heard screams and saw the riders coming at him from the South Mall. He cut between competing student protesters-a pro-abortion group versus an anti-abortion group-and pedaled hard. He planned to exit the campus on the west side and lose them on the Drag, but he arrived at the west exit only to find the limo parked at the curb and Darrell standing there with his thick arms crossed.

Not good.

He spun around and rode straight back at the dirt bikes speeding toward him. Just before they collided, he cut the handlebars to the right and caught air; he flew over a set of stairs leading down to a courtyard fronting Goldsmith Hall. He bounced hard on reentry then turned west down an alley that led back to College Hill. He swung south and careened down "Confederate Hill" past statues of Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States, Albert Sidney Johnston, General of the Confederate Army, and Robert E. Lee, General in Chief of the Confederate Army. When he hit Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, he left the campus and the two black riders behind.

He had lost them.

He sat up on the bike. He cruised down Guadalupe and caught his breath… until the dirt bikes cut him off at Sixteenth Street.

Shit.

He stood on the pedals again and swerved east on Sixteenth and then south on Lavaca against oncoming one-way traffic; the dirt bikes followed. He turned east on Fifteenth then south on Colorado, hopped the curb, rode on the sidewalk around the north side of the Supreme Court Building, and carved the corner at the Statue of Liberty replica. They followed.

The state capitol now loomed large in front of him.

They were right on his tail, so he pedaled past the gardens and around the chain traffic restraint and straight up the wheelchair ramp at the north entrance of the capitol-"Hold the door!" — and through the tall door being held open by an old man.

"Thanks, dude."

He looked back; the dirt bikes had not followed.

The interior of the Texas State Capitol boasted marble statues and terrazzo floors, fine hand-carved wood and delicate glass doors, massive staircases and well-armed state troopers. Andy wanted out. Straight through to the south entrance was the fastest route out, so Andy rode through the north foyer and into the rotunda where framed portraits of every Texas governor hung on the wall and two dozen blue-shirted school kids on a field trip stood on the Great Seal of Texas. The tour guide was saying, "Our capitol is the biggest in the country…"

"Coming through!" Andy yelled.

The startled tour guide jumped out of the way.

"Hey! Call security!"

Someone already had. Two state troopers were running from the south foyer; they blocked his exit. So Andy turned right into the west wing then hung another right behind the wide staircase-even a Stumpjumper couldn't climb those stairs-and circled back around to the north foyer. He'd leave the way he had come. But two more troopers were now blocking that exit, so he rode across the foyer and straight into an open elevator.

He punched the second floor button. The doors closed just as the troopers arrived. They weren't happy. Andy breathed a quick sigh of relief then realized he wasn't alone. A older couple was also on board. He looked at them and smiled.

"Shortcut."

They backed into the far corner.

The elevator arrived at the second floor. The doors opened, and the old couple hustled out. Andy stayed in. Troopers coming up the west stairway had spotted him. He punched the third floor button. The doors closed again and opened on the third floor. He peeked out. The coast was clear, so he pedaled out and onto the circular balcony overlooking the rotunda. Down below, the students were pointing up and laughing. The troopers were not.

"He's gotta go down the elevators! Block every floor!"

That left the stairs.

Andy steered into the east wing and turned the bike down the staircase. He hung on for the two flights to the second floor, made the turn at the landing, and turned the bike down again. The Stumpjumper's suspension ate up the stairs.

The bike ripped!

He hit the first floor, turned west, and rode into the rotunda again. The troopers were now on the second and third levels pointing down. The students screamed with delight; no doubt this would go down as the best field trip of the year. Andy turned south and rode between life-size white marble statues of Sam Houston and Stephen F. Austin and through a gauntlet of white pillars and straight out the south entrance doors being held open by another man.

"Thanks, dude."

From there it was straight downhill to the Eleventh Street gates. He hit the Great Walk again and sped past the Confederate monuments and the trooper stationed in his cruiser at the exit Shit, the trooper was pointing his gun at Andy!

But he didn't shoot. Instead, he jumped into the cruiser and hit the lights and siren. Andy raced through the tall wrought-iron gates and right into the book festival. He swerved to avoid hitting a worker holding a tent pole-"Sorry about that!" The worker fell down, and the tent dropped on top of him.

Andy turned west on Congress then south on Colorado. He stood on the pedals past the once magnificent Governor's Mansion, now just a charred shell after some jerk torched the place. He didn't hear the motocross bikes. No doubt they had turned back at the sound of the siren. So he veered right at the U.S. Courthouse on Eighth then crossed over Lavaca. He figured he'd go south on Rio Grande straight to the loft, but two black Mercedes-Benz sedans cut him off at Guadalupe.

Uh-oh.

He swerved south on Guadalupe. He picked up speed fast, no pedaling required; it was downhill to the lake. And that's where he was headed. The sedans couldn't follow him onto the Hike-and-Bike Trail. He ducked down to cut wind resistance. But there'd be no timing the lights. There'd only be luck.

He shot through red lights at Seventh and Sixth, barely avoiding collisions with motorists both times, and caught green lights at Fifth, Fourth, Third, and Second.

Dude, you're shredding Guadalupe Street!

His speed increased as he approached Cesar Chavez Street, the four-lane east-west boulevard that bordered the north side of Lady Bird Lake. Cars were backed up in both directions. The Guadalupe light was still green, but the pedestrian signal showed a solid red DON'T WALK; the light was about to change. The green light turned yellow, and southbound cars on Guadalupe stopped; Andy didn't. He rode between the cars.

This is gonna be tight.

Andy hit Cesar Chavez a split second after the east-west light turned green. Traffic surged forward in both directions; the gap between the eastbound and westbound cars closed fast. Andy flew through the intersection just before the gap had closed completely. Horns honked, drivers cursed, cars missed.

Now that was an adrenaline rush!

He had made it across. Barely. But the sedans had not. The traffic had caught them. Andy hit the steep path leading down to the Hike-and-Bike Trail. Once on the trail, he turned west and rode under a bridge where two homeless guys were sitting on an abandoned car seat and fishing. The lake was calm and the breeze was cool. Canoes and kayaks and a guy on a surfboard fitted with a sail glided across the glassy green surface. The tourist paddleboat chugged upstream. Walkers, runners, and their dogs pounded the trail. Cyclists tried to avoid colliding with walkers, runners, and dogs.

Andy caught his breath.

Russell's mind had snapped, just like Floyd T. had said. But why did he think the girl was his? He had seemed genuinely surprised when Andy told him the DNA was from Frankie. None of this made any sense, and Andy didn't know what to think. But he did know one thing.

Frankie Doyle had more to tell.

He removed his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. Thick trees shaded the trail; the sunglasses made it too dark to see well. He passed the Pfluger Pedestrian Bridge; he'd exit the trail at Lamar Boulevard and cut over on Fifth to the loft.

He heard a distant scream.

He stopped pedaling and listened. He heard more shouts and a faint whining sound. He stood tall on the pedals and peered down the trail. He saw them. The black riders. The dirt bikes were heading directly toward him from the west.

Jesus, why don't you guys give it up?

Andy flipped the bike around and hammered the trail back east, weaving around walkers and joggers "On your left! On your left!"

— but the sound was gaining on him. He couldn't outrun them on the flat trail. So when he arrived back at the Pfluger Bridge, he stood on the pedals up the wide concrete spiral ramp that looped up to the footbridge over the lake. Once at the top, he stopped and looked down to make sure the dirt bikers were following him up. They were. When they flew off the up ramp, he turned the bike back down.

He knew where he'd lose them.

Once back down on the trail, he turned east and hit a narrow straightaway section; the lake was close on his right and an inlet of water close on his left. That stretch was sunny, but just ahead the trail plunged into shadows under a stand of trees.

They would catch him on the straightaway. But he wanted them to be running top speed when they did, so he hammered the trail like his life depended on it. Maybe it did. He dodged pedestrians and slow-moving cyclists. He heard the noise behind him. He glanced back and saw the riders gaining ground fast.

They were soon on either side of him. He couldn't see their faces through the glare of the sun off their dark visors, but the visors would make it hard for them to see when the trail went into the shadows again.

At least Andy hoped so.

The rider on his right pulled a wheelie- now that's just showing off — then tried to kick him over, so he sped up. They gunned their bikes to catch up. He looked at them; they looked at him. They should've been looking at the trail.

Andy abruptly hit the brakes and skidded sideways to a stop right where the trail ducked back into the shadows-right before the trail made a sharp ninety-degree turn north along the water's edge. They didn't. They rode straight off the trail, hit a low rock wall, and vaulted over their bikes and somersaulted into the lake like synchronized divers. They hadn't seen the turn in the shadows through their dark visors.

Andy didn't hang around. He crossed over a little bridge then rode up the bank to Cesar Chavez and rode north on San Antonio past Silicon Labs. He didn't see the black sedans so he cut over on Third and rode behind the Music Hall and turned north on Rio Grande. He rode directly to the loft, unlocked the front door, and rolled the Stumpjumper inside. He set the bike against the entry wall, went straight to the refrigerator, grabbed a cold Corona, and popped the top. He sat in the leather chair in front of the television.

He downed the beer in one long continuous drink.

He was safe in the loft. They couldn't find him there. Tres' friend had not required a tenant app, and nothing was in Andy's name-not the title, utilities, mail, newspaper, land line, or Internet account. Andy Prescott had left no paper trail leading to this loft.

The attorney was safe from his client.

Andy's brief tenure as Russell Reeves' lawyer was over, as well as everything that had come with it: the girls, the clothes, the lounges, the loft, the money. Except the complications; Andy's life remained complicated.

One complication was the money in his trust account. Russell had wired $50,000 for Hollis McCloskey and $1 million for Sally Armstrong in San Diego. Andy had paid $25,000 to Hollis and $9,999 three times to Lorenzo. That left $995,003.

And got a legal pad and a pen and calculated his billable hours since his last bill to Russell: the Boston, Montana, and San Diego trips, tracking Frankie down, collecting her DNA, even the chase from UT. He came up with one hundred twenty hours. Times $500 an hour, he was due $60,000 in fees. Plus $12,000 in expenses, including the $1,000 he paid to Mickey and the $1,000 to Ramon. Less the $25,000 Russell had already paid him (the $10,000 for the DNA was a bonus), and Andy was owed $47,000.

He would transfer that sum to his checking account. That would leave $948,003 in his trust account. He was legally obligated to return that money to his former client, Russell Reeves. It wasn't Andy's money. He pulled out his cell phone and called home. When his father answered, Andy asked for Frankie.

"Andy, are you okay?"

Her voice sounded good.

"Reeves' people just chased me all over town."

"Why?"

"I wouldn't tell him where you are."

"I told you he'd come for me."

"Frankie, you got a bank account?"

"In Buda."

"How'd you get a bank account without using your social security number?"

"I used my mom's. I'm her legal guardian."

"Are you her sole beneficiary?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Give me your account number."

"Why?"

"Trust me."

"But you're a lawyer."

Notwithstanding that fact, she gave him her bank account number. He hung up. It was all his fault. If he had just taken no for an answer when McCloskey couldn't find Frankie Doyle, none of this would be happening. But he had wanted the money. He had wanted Suzie and Bobbi and everything else that came with the money. So he had gone to Lorenzo. He had found Frankie Doyle. He had brought Russell Reeves to her. Andy's mother was right: Money makes good men do bad things. Now he would have to make things right.

He wondered if a C student were up to it.