The Common Lawyer (37 page)

What was Frankie entitled to?

Andy Prescott, Attorney-at-Law, owed no legal duty to Frankie Doyle. He wasn't her lawyer; she wasn't his client. She was simply the object of his client's desire, whatever that desire might be. And what a billionaire client desired, his lawyer obtained. That's how the legal system in America worked. For rich people. Who made their lawyers rich. All Andy had to do was tell Russell Reeves what he wanted to know, and he would have one million dollars. More money than he had ever dreamed of having. He would be rich. Suzie, Bobbi, the loft, the life. It would all be his. Forever. All he had to do was tell his client what he knew.

Instead, he ran.

"Andy!"

He ran back across the footbridge, hopped on the bike, and stood on the pedals down the sidewalk along the west side of the building. Darrell gave chase, but he had no foot speed; halfway across the bridge, he turned back. Andy cut through the parking lot to Trinity Street and turned north. He powered up the hill and veered east past the law school; the street turned down, and he picked up speed. At the bottom of the hill, he swerved south on Robert Dedman Drive and sped past the LBJ School.

He heard tires squealing. He glanced back and saw the limo turning behind him. So he turned west on Twenty-third Street and hammered the pavement past the football stadium and across San Jacinto Street. He entered the campus at the East Mall fountain.

From there the land climbed steadily to the clock tower.

Construction on the sloping terrain required concrete retaining walls, which cut the campus into terraces. Andy carried the bike up two flights of concrete steps around the retaining wall on the east side of the fountain; once atop the first terrace, he looked back. The limo screeched to a stop down below. Darrell jumped out and gestured helplessly up at Andy.

They couldn't follow him up there.

He saddled up again but took it easy through the East Mall. He couldn't go fast anyway; fifty thousand students changing classes crowded the sidewalks. He tried to think. He couldn't go back to his office; Russell's goons would be waiting for him. He couldn't even go back to SoCo. But he could go to the loft. Russell didn't know he lived there and had no way of finding out.

Andy was about to turn south and head toward downtown when he heard screams and shouts from behind—"Hey, watch out!"—and now high-pitched buzzing noises, like high-powered weed-whackers … like … motocross bikes. He looked back.

Shit.

Two riders dressed in black and wearing black helmets with dark visors on black dirt bikes were parting the crowd of students like Moses parting the Red Sea in that movie. Kids dove out of their way. They were coming for him. But Andy Prescott had grown up on this campus. He knew every path, walkway, alley, and road on the three hundred and fifty acres.

Andy stood on the pedals past Simkins Hall—named in honor of a former UT law professor and KKK member—and cut between the ROTC indoor rifle range and the old Gregory Gymnasium, bounced hard down onto Speedway Drive, bunny-hopped the curb, whipped around the business school and across Campus Drive, and climbed concrete steps up two more terraces to College Hill. His pistons were burning by the time he arrived at the clock tower. He wiped sweat from his face and looked back.

He saw one dirt bike behind him.

The other rider would try to cut him off heading south toward downtown, so he turned north past the Will C. Hogg Building—Governor James Stephen Hogg had a son he named Will and a daughter he named Ima; is that cruel or what?—and raced around the tower to the West Mall. He heard screams and saw the riders coming at him from the South Mall. He cut between competing student protesters—a pro-abortion group versus an anti-abortion group—and pedaled hard. He planned to exit the campus on the west side and lose them on the Drag, but he arrived at the west exit only to find the limo parked at the curb and Darrell standing there with his thick arms crossed.

Not good.

He spun around and rode straight back at the dirt bikes speeding toward him. Just before they collided, he cut the handlebars to the right and caught air; he flew over a set of stairs leading down to a courtyard fronting Goldsmith Hall. He bounced hard on reentry then turned west down an alley that led back to College Hill. He swung south and careened down "Confederate Hill" past statues of Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States, Albert Sidney Johnston, General of the Confederate Army, and Robert E. Lee, General in Chief of the Confederate Army. When he hit Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, he left the campus and the two black riders behind.

He had lost them.

He sat up on the bike. He cruised down Guadalupe and caught his breath … until the dirt bikes cut him off at Sixteenth Street.

Shit.

He stood on the pedals again and swerved east on Sixteenth and then south on Lavaca against oncoming one-way traffic; the dirt bikes followed. He turned east on Fifteenth then south on Colorado, hopped the curb, rode on the sidewalk around the north side of the Supreme Court Building, and carved the corner at the Statue of Liberty replica. They followed.

The state capitol now loomed large in front of him.

They were right on his tail, so he pedaled past the gardens and around the chain traffic restraint and straight up the wheelchair ramp at the north entrance of the capitol—"Hold the door!"—and through the tall door being held open by an old man.

"Thanks, dude."

He looked back; the dirt bikes had not followed.

The interior of the Texas State Capitol boasted marble statues and terrazzo floors, fine hand-carved wood and delicate glass doors, massive staircases and well-armed state troopers. Andy wanted out. Straight through to the south entrance was the fastest route out, so Andy rode through the north foyer and into the rotunda where framed portraits of every Texas governor hung on the wall and two dozen blue-shirted school kids on a field trip stood on the Great Seal of Texas. The tour guide was saying, "Our capitol is the biggest in the country …"

"Coming through!" Andy yelled.

The startled tour guide jumped out of the way.

"Hey! Call security!"

Someone already had. Two state troopers were running from the south foyer; they blocked his exit. So Andy turned right into the west wing then hung another right behind the wide staircase—even a Stumpjumper couldn't climb those stairs—and circled back around to the north foyer. He'd leave the way he had come. But two more troopers were now blocking that exit, so he rode across the foyer and straight into an open elevator.

He punched the second floor button. The doors closed just as the troopers arrived. They weren't happy. Andy breathed a quick sigh of relief then realized he wasn't alone. A older couple was also on board. He looked at them and smiled.

"Shortcut."

They backed into the far corner.

The elevator arrived at the second floor. The doors opened, and the old couple hustled out. Andy stayed in. Troopers coming up the west stairway had spotted him. He punched the third floor button. The doors closed again and opened on the third floor. He peeked out. The coast was clear, so he pedaled out and onto the circular balcony overlooking the rotunda. Down below, the students were pointing up and laughing. The troopers were not.

"He's gotta go down the elevators! Block every floor!"

That left the stairs.

Andy steered into the east wing and turned the bike down the staircase. He hung on for the two flights to the second floor, made the turn at the landing, and turned the bike down again. The Stumpjumper's suspension ate up the stairs.

The bike ripped!

He hit the first floor, turned west, and rode into the rotunda again. The troopers were now on the second and third levels pointing down. The students screamed with delight; no doubt this would go down as the best field trip of the year. Andy turned south and rode between life-size white marble statues of Sam Houston and Stephen F. Austin and through a gauntlet of white pillars and straight out the south entrance doors being held open by another man.

"Thanks, dude."

From there it was straight downhill to the Eleventh Street gates. He hit the Great Walk again and sped past the Confederate monuments and the trooper stationed in his cruiser at the exit—

Shit, the trooper was pointing his gun at Andy!

But he didn't shoot. Instead, he jumped into the cruiser and hit the lights and siren. Andy raced through the tall wrought-iron gates and right into the book festival. He swerved to avoid hitting a worker holding a tent pole—"Sorry about that!" The worker fell down, and the tent dropped on top of him.

Andy turned west on Congress then south on Colorado. He stood on the pedals past the once magnificent Governor's Mansion, now just a charred shell after some jerk torched the place. He didn't hear the motocross bikes. No doubt they had turned back at the sound of the siren. So he veered right at the U.S. Courthouse on Eighth then crossed over Lavaca. He figured he'd go south on Rio Grande straight to the loft, but two black Mercedes-Benz sedans cut him off at Guadalupe.

Uh-oh.

He swerved south on Guadalupe. He picked up speed fast, no pedaling required; it was downhill to the lake. And that's where he was headed. The sedans couldn't follow him onto the Hike-and-Bike Trail. He ducked down to cut wind resistance. But there'd be no timing the lights. There'd only be luck.

He shot through red lights at Seventh and Sixth, barely avoiding collisions with motorists both times, and caught green lights at Fifth, Fourth, Third, and Second.

Dude, you're shredding Guadalupe Street!

His speed increased as he approached César Chávez Street, the four-lane east-west boulevard that bordered the north side of Lady Bird Lake. Cars were backed up in both directions. The Guadalupe light was still green, but the pedestrian signal showed a solid red DON'T WALK; the light was about to change. The green light turned yellow, and southbound cars on Guadalupe stopped; Andy didn't. He rode between the cars.

This is gonna be tight.

Andy hit César Chávez a split second after the east-west light turned green. Traffic surged forward in both directions; the gap between the eastbound and westbound cars closed fast. Andy flew through the intersection just before the gap had closed completely. Horns honked, drivers cursed, cars missed.

Now that was an adrenaline rush!

He had made it across. Barely. But the sedans had not. The traffic had caught them. Andy hit the steep path leading down to the Hike-and-Bike Trail. Once on the trail, he turned west and rode under a bridge where two homeless guys were sitting on an abandoned car seat and fishing. The lake was calm and the breeze was cool. Canoes and kayaks and a guy on a surfboard fitted with a sail glided across the glassy green surface. The tourist paddleboat chugged upstream. Walkers, runners, and their dogs pounded the trail. Cyclists tried to avoid colliding with walkers, runners, and dogs.

Andy caught his breath.

Russell's mind had snapped, just like Floyd T. had said. But why did he think the girl was his? He had seemed genuinely surprised when Andy told him the DNA was from Frankie. None of this made any sense, and Andy didn't know what to think. But he did know one thing.

Frankie Doyle had more to tell.

He removed his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. Thick trees shaded the trail; the sunglasses made it too dark to see well. He passed the Pfluger Pedestrian Bridge; he'd exit the trail at Lamar Boulevard and cut over on Fifth to the loft.

He heard a distant scream.

He stopped pedaling and listened. He heard more shouts and a faint whining sound. He stood tall on the pedals and peered down the trail. He saw them. The black riders. The dirt bikes were heading directly toward him from the west.

Jesus, why don't you guys give it up?

Andy flipped the bike around and hammered the trail back east, weaving around walkers and joggers—

"On your left! On your left!"

—but the sound was gaining on him. He couldn't outrun them on the flat trail. So when he arrived back at the Pfluger Bridge, he stood on the pedals up the wide concrete spiral ramp that looped up to the footbridge over the lake. Once at the top, he stopped and looked down to make sure the dirt bikers were following him up. They were. When they flew off the up ramp, he turned the bike back down.

He knew where he'd lose them.

Once back down on the trail, he turned east and hit a narrow straightaway section; the lake was close on his right and an inlet of water close on his left. That stretch was sunny, but just ahead the trail plunged into shadows under a stand of trees.

They would catch him on the straightaway. But he wanted them to be running top speed when they did, so he hammered the trail like his life depended on it. Maybe it did. He dodged pedestrians and slow-moving cyclists. He heard the noise behind him. He glanced back and saw the riders gaining ground fast.

They were soon on either side of him. He couldn't see their faces through the glare of the sun off their dark visors, but the visors would make it hard for them to see when the trail went into the shadows again.

At least Andy hoped so.

The rider on his right pulled a wheelie—
now that's just showing off
—then tried to kick him over, so he sped up. They gunned their bikes to catch up. He looked at them; they looked at him. They should've been looking at the trail.