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.'
