The Common Lawyer

FOUR

Andy was late for traffic court. So he pedaled like a maniac north on Congress Avenue, raced through a red light at the Riverside intersection, and stood on the pedals to power up the incline leading to the bridge across the Colorado River.

Sailboats and kayaks and the UT women's rowing team on shells glided across the surface of the green water that flowed west to east through Austin. In town, the river was called Lady Bird Lake; it had been renamed in honor of Lady Bird Johnson after she died, an honor bestowed by the same people who had protested the Vietnam War back in the sixties when they were students at UT and taunted her husband, President Lyndon Baines Johnson, with chants of "Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?" whenever he had dared show his face in Austin. Andy's mother had been one of the protestors.

Today, the river divided Austin as distinctly as the war had America back then. North of the river was a miniature version of Dallas. South of the river was Austin the way Austin used to be. But for how long? How long could SoCo stand against the inexorable force of money flowing south across the river? The money was insatiable; it wanted all of Austin: the greenbelt, the river, the springs, the heart, the soul. SoCo was the soul of Austin, and the money wanted SoCo. And one day, it would own SoCo. The money always won.

Andy crossed Cesar Chavez Street that ran along the northern boundary of the river and entered the darkness that was downtown Austin: not a figurative darkness of rich developers and shady politicians and their crafty lawyers making backroom deals that lined their pockets and screwed the citizens-well, it was all that, too-but downtown was literally a dark place. The skyscrapers, hotels, and condo towers that lined Congress Avenue created a canyon at street level and blocked out the sun as effectively as a solar eclipse; except for the one hour each day when the sun was directly overhead, downtown Austin was plunged into shadows. Only the pink granite state capitol that stood on a low rise ten blocks due north where Congress dead-ended at Eleventh Street was free of shadows; basking in the morning sun, the capitol dome looked like the light at the end of a tunnel.

For some reason, that sight always gave Andy hope.

A construction site had traffic backed up at Second Street, so Andy bunny-hopped the curb and rode on the sidewalk. He weaved around office workers wearing suits and dresses, poor people waiting for buses, vagrants packing their possessions on their backs, and drunks sleeping it off on benches. He dodged a pedicab and an eastbound bus and ran the red light.

Once across Second, he bounced back down to the street to avoid a group of slow-moving tourists on the sidewalk. He stood on the pedals again and swerved in and out of northbound traffic. Angry drivers honked their horns; they were inching forward in their luxury automobiles while he blew past them on the little red bike. The exhaust fumes were so thick he could taste the global warming. A siren wailed somewhere. He came upon another traffic jam at Fourth Street. He again hopped the curb and hammered the sidewalk-"Coming through! Coming through!" — past the Frost Bank Tower that looked like something out of Spielberg's Minority Report. He carved the corner at the Mexic-Arte Museum and turned east on Fifth.

He checked his watch: 9:12.

His left knee burned with pain, but he stood on the pedals again and blew through the intersections at Brazos, San Jacinto, and Trinity-the north-south streets on either side of Congress were named after Texas rivers-then veered north on Neches past Lovejoys on the left and Coyote Ugly on the corner of Sixth. He swung east on Seventh and rode through a gauntlet of homeless people sitting on the curb near the shelter waiting for breakfast and around a green Dillo bus depositing passengers. He crossed Red River and Sabine then cut across the street and skidded to a stop at the entrance to the Municipal Court Building sitting in the shadow of the elevated southbound lanes of the interstate.

Interstate 35 separated the races in Austin, Texas: white people lived west of I-35; black and brown people lived east. West was rich and crime-free; east was poor and crime-ridden. West was downtown, lofts, lounges, restaurants, and political power; east was massage parlors, strip clubs, pawn shops, gravel pits, and the city dump. Austin was hip and cool, but it was no less unjust than any other American city.

Andy locked the Huffy to a bike stand; he didn't want to return only to find some homeless dude joyriding around downtown on Tres' bike. It would be a long walk back. He hurried inside, digging around in the backpack until he found the red tie; he clipped it onto his shirt collar. He stuffed the helmet into the backpack then ran his fingers through his long hair.

He was ready for court.

Judge Judith "Don't Call Me Judge Judy" Jackson gave Andy a stern look over her reading glasses as soon as he stepped inside Municipal Courtroom 3.

He was sweating. He had run into the building, emptied his pockets for Arturo at the security checkpoint-"Judge ain't gonna be happy, Andy"-evaded the violators in the lobby waiting to pay their fines-"Now serving number two-fifty-four"-and jumped into an open elevator. He had gotten off on the third floor and checked that day's docket posted on the wall outside the courtroom only to learn that two of his cases had been set for nine.

Andy slid into a pew.

A few cops in blue uniforms and two dozen citizens dressed like they were at a pro wrestling match occupied the spectator section. The courtroom was a small space, not like the district courtrooms in which felonies were tried over at the Travis County Courthouse. Here there were no grand staircases with polished wood rails, no fancy wainscoting lining the corridors, no portraits of revered old judges on the walls. There was only a clock that read 9:24. This was cheap, no-frills justice dispensed in a courtroom built by the lowest bidder.

This was Muny Court.

It was a few minutes before his breathing returned to normal, and Andy noticed the bare legs next to him; tanned and muscular, they emerged from a denim miniskirt hiked up high. Andy snuck a peek at their owner; she was young, blonde, and beautiful. He knew he was staring, so he broke away, but he couldn't resist going back for a second look. This time he ran his eyes up her legs and over the miniskirt, which ended below her navel, exposing a good six inches of tight torso before a black tank top took over. It was skin-tight and low cut, revealing a significant amount of soft cleavage.

Andy inhaled sharply.

Her perfume was more intoxicating than a Corona six-pack. Her lips and long fingernails were painted a shimmering red that made them look wet and inviting, like the springs on a hot summer day. He wanted desperately to dive into her lips, to immerse himself in their wetness, to feel their softness against his, to… he noticed her fingers kneading a traffic ticket like she was making dough-which snapped Andy's mind back to the fact that he was a traffic ticket lawyer who needed dough.

Dude, you zoned out.

Andy dug into his backpack and found a business card. He held it out to the young woman. She took the card and stared at it; then she stared at him-the old coat, the clip-on tie, the wrinkled shirt, the jeans, the sneakers-and said, "You're a lawyer?"

"Yep."

"My dad's lawyer doesn't wear jeans and sneakers."

"Dallas or Houston?"

"Dallas."

"This is Austin."

"What happened to your face?"

"Trail biking accident."

"My dad's lawyer-"

"Doesn't ride a trail bike."

"He drives a Mercedes."

"Figures."

"You do traffic tickets?"

"My specialty." He stuck out his right hand. "Andy Prescott."

She took his hand and said, "Britney Banks."

Her hand was soft; she gently pulled it away.

"UT?"

She nodded. "Sophomore."

"Speeding ticket?"

Another nod. "In a school zone."

"Ouch."

"My fifth ticket. My dad'll go apeshit 'cause they'll raise my insurance premiums… again. He said one more ticket, and he'd take the car back. It's a Z."

"Coupe?"

"Roadster. Graduation present."

"You're only a sophomore."

"High school graduation."

Her proud parents had given her a $40,000 Nissan Z Roadster convertible for getting through high school; she wanted desperately to keep her fine ride. Which presented Andy with an ethical dilemma: he could represent Britney Banks pro bono, get her ticket dismissed, and possibly snag a date with her; or, he could charge his standard fee-$100-and be that much closer to a replacement trail bike. On the one hand, she would be the most beautiful girl he had ever dated; on the other hand, he could not bear the thought of being on the trail-biking sideline for long-by Sunday, he'd be suffering withdrawal. He pondered the possibilities for a moment. What were the odds that she would actually go out with him, considering that (a) she drove a Z, and he rode a Huffy; (b) she was probably a regular at the trendy lounges downtown, and he wasn't allowed past the red velvet ropes; and (c) she had a rich daddy, and he would be a poor date? He sighed then doubled his fee. Her daddy could afford it.

"For two hundred cash, I'll get your ticket dismissed."

She turned that stunning face his way.

"You can do that?"

"Yep."

"And what if you don't?"

"No charge."

She smiled. "Okay."

"When did you get the ticket?"

"Spring semester. I couldn't let my dad find out, so I called the number on the ticket and asked if they could postpone the hearing until this semester. The cop had gone on maternity leave, so they said okay."

"Would you recognize the cop who gave you the ticket?"

"Sure."

"You see him here?"

"Her… maternity leave. And no. So what do I do now?"

Andy held out his right hand again. She took it with her left hand and smiled at him, as if they were sweethearts holding hands. Okay, Britney probably wasn't on the Dean's List.

"No. Pay me the two hundred."

"Oh."

She removed her hand and pulled her wallet out of her purse; it was thick with green bills. She gave him two brand new $100 bills sharp enough to slice a brisket. He stuffed the bills into his jeans. He was now two hundred dollars closer to a replacement trail bike.

But her legs were incredible.

Britney Banks had stumbled onto the secret behind a successful traffic ticket defense in much the same way Andy Prescott had: by necessity. Back during his first year of law school, he had gotten a speeding ticket driving Tres' Beemer. Much like Britney's father, Tres also would have gone apeshit if he had found out, and Andy had had no money to pay the fine. So he had studied the Rules of the Municipal Court of the City of Austin. Then he had requested a trial and was informed that there would be a minimum one-year delay due to the heavy backlog of cases; a trial by jury would be a two-year delay. He immediately requested a jury trial. When his case finally came to trial in his third year of law school, Andy went to court prepared to lose; but the cop didn't show. Without the cop's testimony to prove up the ticket, the prosecution failed. His ticket was dismissed.

And his career was born.

Now, for $100 cash, Andy guaranteed his clients a dismissal of their tickets; if he failed, he would pay the fines. In every case, he requested a trial by jury; he asked for continuances; he delayed the trial date for as long as possible. Two years later, when the trial date arrived, the cop always failed to show, for any number of reasons: he had died, retired, or quit the force; he was ill that day; he was working overtime on real crime; or he had just forgotten. No cop, no testimony, no conviction, no fine, no ticket on his client's record, no increased insurance premium. Case dismissed. Andy had handled over six hundred traffic tickets. Not once had the cop shown up. Not once had he paid a client's fine. All for $100. It wasn't much money, but it was easy money.

"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?