The Common Lawyer

He rented a Corvette, stayed in the French Quarter, and ate at K-Paul's. He found Tameka Evans that same day. She was thirty-five, poor, and a single African-American mother raising three boys and a girl-or so the dossier said. She was an attractive woman who might have been beautiful fifteen years before. Andy took photos from the car then sat on the front porch of the small shotgun house that had survived Katrina but sustained damage that had gone unrepaired. He talked with Tameka Evans about her life and her children's lives. Then he sat in the Corvette for a long time before driving off.

He flew back to Austin and met with Russell the next day. His client read the dossier and studied the photos and asked the same questions about Tameka and her children.

'How old are her sons?'

'Seventeen, fifteen, and thirteen.'

'Anything wrong with them?'

As if he expected something to be wrong.

'No. They're healthy.'

'Her daughter?'

'She would've been ten.'

Russell looked up.

' Would have been?'

'She's dead.'

'Dead? The dossier says she's alive.'

'Hollis must've missed her death certificate. Maybe because of Katrina, all the lost records. She had sickle cell anemia. They tried experimental treatments a few years back, but she died a year ago. Stroke.'

Russell shook his head.

'Three women,' Andy said. 'And three sick kids. That's odd, don't you think?'

'That's bad luck.'

'Russell, is there something you're not telling me?'

'About what?'

'About these women.'

'Such as?'

'Such as, Tameka Evans is a poor black woman who didn't get past the ninth grade. You're a billionaire genius. I can't picture you two dating.'

They stared each other down a moment, then Russell's face sagged. He exhaled.

'We didn't date, Andy. I bought her for a night in New Orleans, okay? When I was young. I'm not proud of it.'

Andy hadn't figured on that.

'Look, Andy, all I know about these women is that years ago I had a brief connection with each of them. And today they need my help. So I'm going to help them. Now, do you want to help me help them or not?'

Andy thought of Tameka Evans on her front porch, crying over her dead daughter.

'Yeah, I want to help you.'

The next day Andy flew back to New Orleans and gave Tameka Evans a cashier's check for $1 million.

Every other day, Andy arrived at his office to find another dossier from Hollis McCloskey waiting for him. He flew to Seattle and found Beverly Greer; her last-known address had been in Denver, but she had since moved to Seattle. Andy took photos and returned to Austin and met with Russell.

'How old?'

'Thirty-five.'

'Her boy?'

'Nine.'

'What's wrong with him?'

An expectation now.

'Optic nerve hypoplasia. He's blind.'

Andy flew to Dallas and found Pam Ward, who had moved there from L.A. He took photos and met with Russell.

'She's thirty-two.'

'The girl?'

'Eleven.'

'What's wrong with her?'

'Batten disease.'

Andy flew to Miami and found Sylvia Gutierrez. Then he met with Russell.

'She's thirty-eight and her son is fifteen.'

'What's wrong with him?'

'Seizures, from a head injury playing football.'

Andy flew first class, he rented luxury vehicles, he stayed in five-star hotels and ordered room service; he found more women with sick children; he delivered a cashier's check to each woman for $1 million. They cried; he cried. Andy Prescott was being paid well to do good. He felt like Robin Hood, except he wasn't having to steal from the rich. The rich guy was just giving it away.

But the expense-account lifestyle had grown less exciting with each passing day; Andy had come to dread meeting another desperate woman with another sick child. Six old girlfriends… six sick children. What were the odds? When his rich client had called that morning about the delay in finding the seventh woman, Andy had decided it was time to find out what the hell was going on. Russell Reeves had sent the limo.

Darrell did not say a word on the ride over. He did not jump out of the driver's seat and run around to open the back door for Andy. He just stopped under the porte-cochere at Russell Reeves' lakefront mansion and waited for Andy to get out. Then he drove off.

Jerk.

Andy walked to the door and rang the doorbell. A middle-aged Latino woman opened the door. It was just after noon.

'Mr. Prescott?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Please come in.'

Andy stepped into a magnificent marble foyer.

'Mr. Reeves, he is on a conference call. He said he will be with you shortly. Would you like a refreshment?'

'I'm good.'

'You here to see my dad?'

A skinny, bald-headed boy wearing a blue New York Yankees cap on backwards and a green Boston Celtics sweat suit had walked into the foyer. Another sick child.

'Uh, yeah. I'm Andy Prescott.'

'Zach.'

The boy stuck out a closed hand. They fist-punched.

'You play Guitar Hero?' Zach asked.

'Zach, I am the Guitar Hero.'

'Please. Don't embarrass yourself.'

Andy grinned.

'Bring it on, dude.'

'Dude, you're killing me.'

The kid was good. Real good. Too good for Andy.

'I give,' Andy said.

They leaned back in the gaming chairs. Zach's bedroom suite was bigger than the little cottage on Newton and housed every electronic gadget and game money could buy. The boy must have noticed Andy's envious eyes.

'I've spent most of my life in here. Thanks for playing, Andy. My dad's not very good.'