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.'
