The Common Lawyer (15 page)

"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.