The Common Lawyer

SEVEN

Andy Prescott turned to his back-seat passenger.

"Max, how about a swim in the creek after lunch?"

Max barked a Yes! Yes, I'd like that very much!

It was the following Saturday morning, and Andy was pedaling the Stumpjumper south on Ranch Road 12. He was packing the log owl in his backpack; it rose above his head like a lookout. Max rode behind him in a seat Andy had rigged up over the rear wheel. They both wore helmets.

Andy enjoyed biking the country roads outside Austin. The air was cleaner, the views of the Hill Country went on forever, and the odds of getting nailed by a speeding motorist were considerably lesser… except for Max barked.

He had heard it before Andy, and now Andy heard the roar of the massive engine. He looked back. The pickup truck rounded the last curve and barreled toward them at a high rate of speed. It was not your standard-size pickup. It was a black 4x4 with wide off-road tires and a grill guard and its suspension jacked up high. It looked like an Abrams battle tank hurtling down the narrow farm-to-market.

Andy steered onto the shoulder and braced himself for the blast of air current that buffeted them when the pickup blew past. The guy hammered his horn like a kid with a new toy. Andy dabbed so as not to fall over. He considered giving the guy the finger, but a new law allowed Texans to carry a weapon in their vehicles, purportedly to protect themselves against carjackers. No doubt this bubba was armed and stupid.

So Andy just pedaled on down the road.

The quaint Village of Wimberley, Texas, population 3,946, sits at the intersection of Ranch Road 12 and Cypress Creek forty miles southwest of Austin, far enough off the beaten path to discourage commuters but close enough to attract Austin's creative types. Wimberley has long been an idyllic colony inhabited by artists, sculptors, singers, writers, craftsmen, glass blowers, and dope smokers.

Jean Prescott had inherited fifty acres just outside town back before Wimberley had been discovered by city folk sick of the city; but city folk had since moved to the country and driven up land prices. His mother's land would bring a million dollars or more, if she wanted to sell out to a developer. She didn't. Real-estate developers ranked just below football coaches on her list. But the property taxes had risen along with the land values. His grandparents had kept cattle for the agricultural exemption, which reduced the taxes to a few hundred dollars. But his mother had sworn off red meat, so she and his father raised a few dozen ostriches instead.

Andy opened the barbed-wire gate. A few of the big birds-ostriches stood eight feet tall and weighed almost four hundred pounds-had wandered over to greet him; he shooed them away, then rode in and closed the gate behind him. He pedaled up the gravel road to the house.

Tall oak trees shaded the old two-story farmhouse with the wraparound porch where Andy had played as a child. A rainwater collection system gathered nature's water for irrigation and solar panels gathered the sun's energy for electricity; his father enjoyed the summer months when he sold surplus electricity back to the grid. Drought-hardy native Texas plants grew in the garden that followed the porch around the house-the log owl would fit right in-and vegetables in the organic garden out back. A compost stood by the fence line. His folks had been green before green was fashionable.

There was no place like home.

Max was barking. Andy parked and lifted the dog down. Max ran off to chase after the ostriches; and the ostriches would chase him. The two-toed birds could hit speeds of forty miles per hour. So they enjoyed free rein on the land, from barbed-wire to barbed-wire; the fence kept them from wandering onto the farm-to-markets and ending up road kill. Even a four-hundred-pound bird had no chance against a three-ton pickup.

Andy unbuckled the backpack and removed the owl. He stepped up onto the porch and entered the house through the screen door. His folks avoided the air conditioner even in the summer; but the house had been built to catch the breeze up from the creek. From the front door, he knew his mother had been baking a cake in the back kitchen.

"Mom!"

No answer. He knew where he'd find her. He walked through the kitchen where a still-warm strawberry cake-his mother knew Max couldn't eat chocolate-sat cooling on the counter. He continued through the screened-in back porch and out the door. Wind chimes hung from the eaves and limbs of the oak trees and played a symphony in the soft breeze. Colorful yard art-metal birds and coyotes and wind catchers-stood in the open space like a sculpture garden. Thirty steps farther and he was at the barn. From all outward appearances, it was a working barn; but once through the open double doors, the classical music playing on the stereo system told otherwise.

This was his mother's private place, where she could lose herself in her art. It was the same for her in there as it was for him out on the trails: she was free of all worldly constraints. She was in the zone. Jean Prescott was a sculptor. And the barn was her studio.

Andy found her in the back corner where the natural light from the windows filled the space. The back doors were propped open, and the cool breeze from the creek blew in like a whisper. She stood there in her natural element, all five feet five inches of her lithe body clad in jeans and a T-shirt, her stance almost athletic before the sculpture, like a lioness on the African savannah stalking her prey. Some human beings belonged in a corner office thirty stories up; others in a coal mine three miles down. Jean Prescott belonged in an art studio. She was putting the final touches on the clay figure of an angel.

"Nice."

She turned to him and smiled.

"Andy."

But her smile turned into a frown.

"You cut your hair."

He had. Her eyes now seemed so sad Andy almost apologized, but then she saw the owl under his arm and her eyes brightened.

"Andy, I told you, no presents."

He held the owl up for her.

"I know. But this is pretty cool, don't you think? For your garden. Happy birthday, Mom."

She took the owl and admired it.

"It's beautiful. But you can't afford this."

"I can now."

"How?"

"I'll explain later. Where's Dad?"

"In his office." She set the owl on a nearby table and wiped her hands. "Go tell him it's time for lunch. Tofu burgers. I've got him on a feeding schedule like the birds."

Andy stifled a groan. Not tofu burgers again.

Andy walked out the open doors and past the vegetable garden; the tomatoes were fattening up. He continued down the sloping land to Cypress Creek, a lazy slice of shallow water that coursed gently over river rocks and around limestone boulders and under bald cypress trees whose trunks snaked into the creek like long straws. He came up behind his father sitting in a rocking chair on a shady rock outcropping at the water's edge-his office for the last thirty-five years. A fishing pole stood against a nearby tree in case he spotted a catfish worth catching in the clear creek. He was strumming his guitar and singing softly, as if performing for the half dozen ostriches that grazed nearby.

Paul Prescott was tall and lanky as a fencepost with a gray ponytail and a neat beard; he wore old jeans and older cowboy boots. He could pass for Kris Kristofferson, and he possessed the same gravelly voice and the same songwriting ability. But Paul Prescott had never hit it big. Never gotten his big break. Never gotten lucky. So for forty-five years he had sung his songs at local joints in and around Austin, just him and his guitar. And his constant companion, Jose Cuervo.

Saturday nights at the Broken Spoke or Cheatham Street Warehouse or Gruene Hall, sitting in the back listening to his father sing and falling asleep in his mother's lap-those were Andy Prescott's childhood memories. Other kids had grown up watching G-rated Disney movies; Andy Prescott had grown up in honky-tonks with drunk cowboys and wild women.

It had been a great childhood.

Andy had met Willie and Waylon, Kris and Kinky, Ray Price and Merle Haggard-all the country greats in all the Texas bars. Paul Prescott had opened for all of them, but no one had ever opened for him; he had never been the headliner. When Andy was ten years old, he had been so proud of his father-a star singer up on the stage. By the time he was fourteen, he understood that his father wasn't a star. By eighteen, he knew his father would never be a star. Andy Prescott had always figured on following in his father's footsteps-not as a singer, but as a failure. He wondered if Russell Reeves would be his big break.

His father paused his singing, coughed hard, and spit blood.

Paul Prescott was dying. He was sixty-five, and he had outlived his liver, as he put it. In fact, he had killed his liver with tequila. "Alcoholic cirrhosis," the doctors called it. His scarred liver could no longer adequately absorb vitamins, produce proteins that enabled his blood to clot, or cleanse his body of toxins. He needed a new liver. Without a transplant, he would eventually develop a fatal case of bacterial peritonitis or suffer hepatic encephalopathy and slip into a coma, or the scarring in his liver would cause his blood to back up and he would bleed to death.

His father was one of seventeen thousand people on the national waiting list for a "cadaveric liver transplant"-a liver from a dead donor. He had been put on the list a year before, and the doctor said he would be on the list a year from now. Only six thousand people would get a liver in the next twelve months; his father would not be one of them. Alcoholic cirrhosis patients sat at the bottom of the waiting list.

Donated livers are allocated first to those transplant patients classified as "Status 1," which requires they be in the intensive care unit with a life expectancy of less than seven days. But by then it is often too late; only half of Status 1 patients survive a year after a transplant. Which seemed stupid: livers go to those patients who are least likely to be saved.

His father's only hope-and Paul Prescott struggled with the moral dilemma of hoping that someone else's life would not be saved so his would-was that a donated liver not match the blood type and body weight of the Status 1 patients in the Texas region; only after those patients were ruled out would the liver drop down the list, first to those patients in the region with a life expectancy of less than three months, then to those with longer life expectancies, and finally to the alcoholic cirrhosis patients. The odds were not good.

His father figured on dying.

But he had never complained; he said he had no one to blame but himself. And at least he had health insurance and could get on the waiting list; uninsured patients could not. Ability to pay was a qualifying factor: a five-year-old child without insurance dies; a seventy-five-year-old man with insurance lives. Paul Prescott said, "Life isn't fair. Sometimes that works for you and against someone else; sometimes that works for someone else and against you. But life is always unfair to someone." Andy's father had long ago accepted the fact that life was not fair, even if his son had not. Andy walked closer. His father's soft voice became clear.

"Honky-tonk heroes, we're a dying breed now, The world's gone corporate and the music has too, Honky-tonks are history and their heroes will soon be, But their music lives on in the magic of CDs."

"Sounds good."

His father's fingers froze on the guitar strings; he turned and smiled.

"Andy, my boy. How're you doing, son?" He squinted into the light. "You get in a bar fight?"

"The trails. I like that one."

"Might work. Better write it down."

His father jotted in the little notebook he carried with him these days. Forgetfulness was a symptom of liver disease.

"Used to sing thirty songs a night. Now I can't remember one all the way through."

His father cut his own CDs at an Austin studio then sold them in local stores and at his performances. He hadn't sung in public in two years. He wanted to cut one more CD before he died. He finished his notes and faced Andy again.

"You get a job?"

"No."

"Why'd you cut your hair?"

"Oh. I got a client."

"You cut your hair for a speeding driver?"

"I'll tell you later."

Andy squatted next to his father; his skin glowed yellow in the shards of sunlight that cut through the cypress canopy above.

"How're you doing, Dad?"

"I'm still singing… to the birds anyway."

Andy felt the tears come into his eyes. His father ran his hand over Andy's short hair.

"Son, don't cry for me. If it ends now, I've got no complaints. I've had a great life. I've lived life my way and I made music my way. I've had thirty-five years with the best woman I've ever known and twenty-nine years with the best son I could ever have hoped for. I only hope you get a woman as good as your mother and a son as good as you."

"Dad, I'm a traffic ticket lawyer."

"You're a good man, Andy. You've got a good heart."

Andy wiped his face.

"Son, I'm not rich or famous either, but I didn't need to be. I needed to sing my songs, but I didn't need to be a star to be happy. You can't buy happiness in a store, Andy. You live it. I have. I did exactly what I wanted to do every day of my life. I've loved and been loved. That's as good as it gets in this life."

Andy was close to blubbering uncontrollably, so he said, "Mom says it's time for lunch. Tofu burgers."

His father groaned.

"Damn, not tofu again. I need meat."

"Not in that house."

Paul Prescott pushed himself out of the chair; it took some effort. Andy would have helped, but that always annoyed his father. He had never required help.

"What do you say, Andy? Let's you and me sneak into town, get us a big ol' cheeseburger and French fries."

His father swallowed a bite of his tofu burger.

"Mighty good, Jean."

She gave him a "Who do you think you're kidding?" look.

"Been reading about liver transplants in India, says I can get a liver sooner over there. And cheaper."

They were on the back porch eating the tofu burgers and sweet potato fries and drinking iced tea. Andy never drank beer in his father's presence.

"Seems like everyone's going to India these days-for call centers, wombs, livers…"

His mother frowned. "Wombs?"

"Natalie wants to hire an Indian surrogate to have their baby. It's a lot cheaper."

"Global economy," his father said. "Americans shopping the world for cheap labor. Literally, in Natalie's case."

"You really thinking about getting a liver in India?"

"Nah. Those poor folks don't need us coming over there to take advantage of their poverty, buying their body parts on the cheap like we buy auto parts from China."

The Prescott men were hopeless liberals and lovable losers. They voted for McGovern, Humphrey, Mondale, Gore, Kerry, and even Kinky Friedman. Their votes guaranteed the candidate would lose.

His father downed a handful of vitamins and chased them with iced tea then slowly pushed himself out of his chair.

"Hell, I gotta go again."

He walked inside the house. Andy looked to his mother.

"The diuretics," she said. "They make his body produce more urine, to get rid of the fluid in his abdomen."

"His skin and eyes, they're a lot more yellow than the last time I saw him."

She nodded. "The jaundice. Doctor said he'll look like a pumpkin before it's over."

"I signed the organ donation authorization on the back of my driver's license."

"Your face looks better."

His father returned and said, "Made a hundred bucks this month, selling electricity back to those bastards." He sat and pointed a fork at the log owl sitting by the back door. "The hell is that thing, Andy?"

"It's yard art, Paul," his mother said.

"You buy that in Austin?"

"Yep."

"Couldn't have come cheap… or that fancy bike outside."

"I got a new client this week."

He waited until he had their full attention; he felt like a kid about to surprise his parents with a straight-A report card.

"Russell Reeves hired me."

His parents stared at him as if he had said Dick Cheney would be joining them for dinner. When his mother could finally speak again, she said, "Did you cut your hair for him?"

Only his mother would ask such a question. He answered with a lame nod.

"Russell Reeves hired you for a traffic ticket?" his father said.

"No. He wants to build low-income housing in SoCo."

"Andy," his mother said, "you're representing a developer? "

"No, Mom. A renovator. "

"What's that got to do with you?" his father said.

"He needs a SoCo lawyer. He's paying me four hundred dollars an hour."

"Why would he do that?"

"He built low-income housing in East-"

"No. Pay you four hundred bucks an hour?"

"He needs me."

"Russell Reeves needs you?"

"I'm trusted in SoCo."

"Is he?"

"Nope. That's why he needs me."

"He's a billionaire ten times over."

"Fifteen."

"That's fifteen billion reasons not to trust him."

His parents had fed their son a daily dose of populist politics right along with organic carrots and squash from the day he was born. And one article of that faith was to never trust "The Man"-and The Man was always rich and powerful and politically connected… like Russell Reeves.

"Dad, Russell Reeves has done a lot of good for Austin. And, Mom, he didn't give his money to the UT football team. He built a research lab… and he has a sick kid."

Now Andy was defending The Man.

His mother's expression softened. "His son is dying, Paul."

"But why Andy?" His father turned back. "Nothing against you, son, but there's ten thousand lawyers in Austin who-"

"Did better than me in law school?"

"You're a traffic ticket lawyer, son. Now that's fine with me, but why is it fine with Russell Reeves?"

"Dad, he just wants to help regular people live in SoCo."

"That's like politicians saying they want to help regular people when rich people put them in office." He shook his head. "Andy, when things don't seem right, they're usually not."

"Dad…"

"A billionaire just walks into your office one day and hires you for a big real-estate deal? That make sense to you?"

"Don't worry, Dad. It's all good."

His dad wasn't convinced. He chewed on that and the tofu, then said, "How about staying the night, son? We'll go into town for dinner, get that cheeseburger, maybe check out the movie at the Corral-"

The Corral Theatre was an outdoor walk-in theatre that showed movies under the stars. You took your own chair.

— "maybe go to church tomorrow morning. I feel like eating meat Saturday night and singing gospel Sunday morning."

Andy glanced from his father to his mother. She was trying to nod a yes out of him.

"Can we have cheeseburgers, Mom?"

"You and your father can."

"Okay, Dad, I'll stay over." He had promised Tres he'd ride the greenbelt with him the next morning, but he'd just have to break in the Stumpjumper another day. "On one condition."

"You want real French fries, too?"

"Well, yeah, I do, but that's not the condition."

"A chocolate malt?"

"That, too, but you've got to let me buy you those boots, for your sixty-sixth birthday."

His father had long yearned for cowboy boots handmade by the same boot maker who had made boots for Clint Eastwood and Kevin Costner when they had come to Austin to film A Perfect World, his father's favorite movie. The boots didn't come cheap; they started at $1,200. Just when his father had decided to bite the bullet and buy the boots, he had been diagnosed with liver disease; he had lost all desire for new boots.

"With my billionaire client, I can afford them. Any leather you want… except ostrich."

Cowboy boots made of ostrich skin were highly coveted by Texans. But Andy had grown up with the big birds-the same ones outside had been his childhood pets; ostriches lived to be seventy-so he couldn't very well make them into boots.

"Maybe elk, Dad. That's soft leather, they'll fit like foot gloves."

"Andy, those boots, they'll take six, seven months to make."

"That means you've got to be here when they're ready."

"Who says?"

"I do. And one other thing: I'm going to be real busy for a while, working for Reeves-would you keep Max?"

His father's yellow eyes brightened.

"You sure?"

Andy nodded. His father looked down at the dog.

"Max, you want to stay with your grandpa a while?"

He leaned over and gave Max a bite of the tofu burger. Max gave it a chew, then spit it out. He liked meat, too. Jean Prescott leaned over and kissed Andy on the cheek then walked over to the counter where the strawberry cake sat.

"Max, are you ready for cake and ice cream?"

Max jumped up and barked a Yes! Yes, I am! He bounded over to the counter, and Andy's father said, "You dating anyone?"

"Curtis and Dave. Tres is taken."

"There's someone out there for you, Andy," his mother said from across the kitchen. "One day, you'll turn around and she'll be standing right there."

"Sure, Mom."

His mother was an artist. A hopeless romantic. Which was probably why she had ended up with two hopeless losers. Andy thought of his life with his father. Paul Prescott wasn't rich but it had never been about the money; for him, it had always been about the music. One day Andy's children-if he ever got married and had children-would listen to their grandpa's music, and they'd be proud. Andy fought the tears again.

He would give anything to save his father's life.

He had tried to give his own liver to his father-a "live donor" transplant. The liver is the only human organ capable of regeneration; if Andy gave half his liver to his father, within two months each half would grow to a whole liver again, like something out of a sci-fi movie. But Andy had Type A blood; his father had Type B. His father's body would reject Andy's liver.

There was nothing more Andy Prescott could do to save his father's life.

Inside a $20-million Mediterranean-style mansion overlooking that portion of the Colorado River known as Lake Austin, Russell Reeves sat in a gaming chair facing a video screen that almost covered one wall; his seven-year-old

son sat next to him. They were playing Guitar Hero III.

Zach was taking it easy on his father.

Zach's bedroom suite felt like a sauna-the boy was always cold. An orange-and-white Longhorns knit cap covered his bald head. Oxygen tubes wound over his ears and under his nose; the chemo shunt in his chest was concealed by his Dallas Cowboys jersey. He loved sports, but he had never played sports. He had never been just a kid. He had always been a sick kid.

Because of Russell Reeves.

He was a carrier of the mutated gene that had caused his son's rare cancer. The gene had not given the cancer to Russell, but he had given the gene to Zach-and the gene had given his son cancer. The man who loved this boy more than life itself had sentenced him to death.

Russell Reeves had killed his own son.

Zach had spent more of his life in the hospital than at home; he had been in and out of the children's cancer ward at Austin General Hospital so many times that Russell now kept the hospital's penthouse reserved year-round. When Zach stayed at the hospital, they stayed at the hospital.

And when Zach was at home, it was as if he were still at the hospital. His bed was a hospital bed; medical equipment lined the wall behind the bed; a nurse sat beside the bed, twenty-four/seven. And there was even the hospital smell: the inescapable scent of death.

The door opened, and Kathryn walked in. She was only thirty-eight, but the last six years had aged her. She had been a beauty queen at UT and had looked the part when they had married fourteen years ago; now she looked like a woman about to lose her only child. But she never let on to Zach. Russell glanced away from the video screen just in time to catch her putting on her happy face.

"Zach!"

She came over and kissed her son.

"Are you winning, honey?"

Zach nodded without looking away from the screen. Kathryn checked his chart: pulse, blood pressure, temperature. Every thirty minutes. Zach's fingers were working the guitar-shaped controller expertly when he abruptly leaned over and vomited. He had had chemo that morning.

Russell grabbed a towel and wiped his son's mouth. He checked Zach's clothes; they were still clean. He removed the oxygen tubes and lifted his frail son-he felt like skin and bones in Russell's arms-then carried Zach to the bathroom to rinse his mouth and brush his teeth. He then carried him over to the bed and gently set him down. Zach lay back on the bed. The nurse replaced the oxygen tubes then took his pulse, blood pressure, and temperature while Kathryn called the maids.

"You okay, son?"

"I'm just tired."

"Okay, buddy, get some rest. We'll finish the game later."

He kissed his son's forehead. Zach closed his eyes. He was so pale that when he closed his eyes, Russell knew he was looking at his son at the moment of death.

That moment was not far off.

The nurse returned to her chair, Russell dimmed the lights, and he and Kathryn walked out of their son's bedroom. Russell shut the door behind them. His wife faced him.

"He doesn't have a year, Russell."

"I know."

"We have fifteen billion dollars, but we can't save our own son."

She began crying. Again. She cried constantly now. She paced the house all day and night. He often woke and found her gone. He would always find her in Zach's room, kneeling next to his bed while he slept, praying to God to spare her child. It scared him. Zach's doctor had recommended a psychiatrist. She had refused. He was losing them both.

"Kathryn, I've worked around the clock for six years now to save Zach. I've spent five billion dollars on the lab and the scientists and the research. I've-"

"Failed him."

"No, Kathryn, I haven't failed him, and I won't fail him. I won't let him die. I promise you. I promise him."

He took her by the shoulders; all he felt were bones. She had all but stopped eating. It was as if she were dying with Zach; as if the family were dying with him.

"I swear to God, Kathryn-I will save him."

She wandered down the hallway; he walked to his office at the rear of the house. The back wall of the office was a bank of windows that offered a stunning view of the lake below and the hills beyond. White sails dotted the blue surface of Lake Austin. He could imagine the people on the sailboats looking up at this mansion and thinking that the people who lived there must have a perfect life. They would be wrong. Russell Reeves had everything money could buy, but his life wasn't perfect. Because his only child was dying. Would die.

Unless his father saved him.

He sat behind his desk and opened the newspaper to the obituaries. It had become a daily ritual. Or an obsession. He read: "Kenny Johnson, age seven, went to the Lord after a brave battle with cancer. Survived by his parents…"

How does a parent survive the death of his child? Her child? Their child? He looked at the young faces, and he read of their short lives. After the children's obituaries, he turned to the obits for adults that read: "Preceded in death by his son, Henry…" or "by her daughter, Janice…" And he always wondered how they had gone on with their lives after the death of their children. Or had they?

And he saw his own son's obituary as clearly as if printed in the paper: "Zachary Reeves, age seven, is survived by his parents, Russell and Kathryn Reeves…"

Would he survive the death of his son? Would Kathryn?

He had maintained a steadfast public persona, the billionaire philanthropist helping others while his son inched closer and closer to death. But his public life belied his private torture. His personal hell. His life that was now consumed by a single objective: finding a cure for his son. He had devoted the last six years of his life to saving his son; he would spend every dollar of his fortune and devote every day of the rest of his life to save his son… or the rest of his son's life, whichever came first.

He had read every article ever written, talked to every scientist who had ever studied, and learned everything there was to learn about his son's rare form of cancer: Philadelphia Chromosome-Positive Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Fewer than one percent of all children's cancer was Ph-positive ALL, as it was referenced in the medical journals. It's almost always fatal.

Immediately upon diagnosis, Zach had started chemotherapy. But remissions were always short-lived. The only hope for a cure was a hematopoietic stem cell transplantation from a "matched related" donor-from a blood-related brother or sister. Which Zach did not have and would never have. And even if he had a sibling, there was only a twenty-five percent chance of a match. But they couldn't have a second child whose stem cells could save their first child; Russell might pass the cancer gene to that child, too. He couldn't take that chance. He couldn't sentence two children to death. So Russell had established the Reeves Research Institute. He built the facility, hired scientists, and spent $5 billion searching for a cure for his son.

But without success.

He then dispatched his scientists around the world searching for a matched unrelated donor, even though the prognosis for such an unrelated stem cell transplant was not good. No cost was spared, but no match was found.

Until now.

Perhaps. Possibly. Maybe. There might be hope. A chance. A prayer. But there were issues to be handled. Problems to be solved. Decisions to be made. Difficulties to be overcome. Things to be done.

Things that had to be done to save his son's life.

Russell stood at the window and gazed out at the world. What if the world found out what he was about to do? What if what he did in here became known out there? What if he were exposed for what he really was-a man desperate enough to commit a crime to save his son? What would he say to the reporters and television cameras who turned on their favorite son? And they would most certainly turn on him.

Russell Reeves would stand before the world just as he now stood and say as he now said to the world beyond the window:

"What would you do if your child were dying of a rare, incurable disease?

"If you're a normal person with limited financial resources, you would hand your child over to the doctors and you would pray. You would go back to work because you need your job to keep your health insurance to pay for your child's care. That's all you could do. That's all normal people can do.

"But what if you weren't normal?

"What if you had unlimited financial resources?

"What if you were worth fifteen billion dollars?

"What would you do then?

"What if you had already spent five billion searching for a cure, but to no avail?

"What if you had chased down every possible hope, every chance of a cure-no matter how far-fetched-but without success?

"What if you had searched the world for a matched donor, but had come home empty-handed?

"What if, just when all seemed lost, you learned that there was hope-a chance-of a cure for your child? Of life for your child? Instead of certain death?

"What would you do then?

"Would you stand by and watch your child suffer and die? Or would you save your child?

"I chose to save my son.

"And I would make the same choice again.

"And you would have made the same choice, too-if you had fifteen billion dollars."

That's what he would say. And that's what he would do.

Russell Reeves would do whatever it took to save his son.