Read Online The Common Lawyer by Mark Gimenez - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Gimenez
Tags: thriller
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
