The Color of Law sf-1

by Mark Gimenez

  Scott held her tightly.

  “It’s just us now, baby.”

  And they cried together.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Bobby came by at nine on Monday morning. He gave Scott the once-over and said, “You’re wearing jeans and a polo shirt to a pretrial conference with the judge?”

  “What’s Buford gonna do, fire me?”

  “Good point.”

  They walked out the back door just as Louis was walking in. After almost three weeks living in the garage and nonstop pleading by Scott, Louis had finally relented and agreed to come inside the house for his meals. Pajamae was cooking breakfast.

  When Scott turned the Volkswagen south on Turtle Creek Boulevard, Bobby asked, “How do you like the Jetta?”

  “Well, the Ferrari could do zero to sixty in four-point-five seconds and the Jetta takes half a day, but hey, this little baby gets great gas mileage.” Bobby laughed, but turned sober when Scott said, “Why aren’t you mad at me?”

  “For what?”

  “For quitting on you back then.”

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “What good would that do? You were gone. Didn’t know what to do, so I married the first girl who said yes. Lasted less than a year, took her that long to figure out she’d married a loser. Second wife, we got married four years after the first divorce. She’s the sister of the guy who owns the bar next door to my office, Mexican girl, most beautiful woman I ever saw naked. Problem was, I wasn’t the only guy seeing her naked. She was stepping out with most of the guys at the bar. Some of them were my clients. Still are.”

  Bobby made a face.

  “Is that a conflict of interest?”

  “They repo your suits, too?”

  Ray Burns had that same smart-ass expression on his face. Scott and Bobby had met him outside Judge Buford’s chambers, where the pretrial conference would take place.

  “Shit, Scott, why didn’t you just stick a gun to your head and blow your brains out like your girl did to Clark? Would’ve been a hell of a lot less painful.”

  “What are you talking about, Ray?”

  “Throwing your career away for her. Jesus, were you really making seven-fifty a year? And driving a Ferrari? What, you got a death wish or something?”

  Scott glared at Ray Burns as he stepped past him and entered Judge Buford’s chambers, but he heard Bobby say, “Ray, your mouth is writing checks your body can’t cash.”

  “Jury selection on the nineteenth, opening statements on Monday the twenty-third,” Judge Buford said. “Anything else, gentlemen?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Scott said. “Mr. Burns is persisting in claiming that the alleged crime is eligible for the death penalty when that is clearly not the case.”

  Ray Burns shrugged. “Our position is that the victim was an officer of a federal agency, and the defendant killed him in the perpetration of a robbery.”

  “Give me a break, Ray. Clark McCall was with a prostitute. The statute requires that the officer be engaged in the performance of official duties. And she didn’t commit robbery. She only took the thousand dollars Clark owed her. He had another sixteen hundred on him. She didn’t take that or anything else in the house.”

  “She took his car.”

  “Only to get back to her part of town.”

  “She had his skin under her fingernails.”

  “She scratched him when he attacked her. She’s not denying she was there.”

  “But she’s denying she pulled the trigger, even in self-defense. See, Scott, if she’d come clean about that, maybe we’d be willing to discuss dropping the death penalty.”

  “Using the death penalty to coerce a confession-that’s prosecutorial misconduct, Ray.”

  Ray shrugged. “We call it prosecutorial discretion, Scott.”

  “You’re full of shit, Ray,” Scott said.

  “And you’re unemployed.”

  “Gentlemen,” Judge Buford said as Scott fought back the urge to punch the Assistant U.S. Attorney. “The death penalty has been well briefed by Mr. Burns for the government and by Mr. Herrin, I presume”-Judge Buford eyed Scott over his reading glasses-“for the defense. We will address that issue if and when it becomes necessary. Anything else?”

  “No, sir,” Ray Burns said.

  “No, Your Honor,” Scott said.

  “Fine. We’ll reconvene on the nineteenth.”

  The three lawyers stood to leave, but the judge said, “Scott, may I speak with you alone?” Buford turned to Ray. “If you have no objection, Mr. Burns?”

  “No, sir, I have no objection.”

  Ray and Bobby exited the chambers and shut the door.

  “Sit down, Scott.”

  Scott sat. Judge Buford stared at him like a psychiatrist addressing his patient. “You holding up okay?”

  Scott lied: “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve read what’s happened. I suppose all of Dallas has. They really deported your maid?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s down in Nuevo Laredo, waiting on a green card. I’ve done everything, but the INS says they’re backlogged.”

  “Scott, if I had any idea all this would happen, that you’d lose your job, I would’ve never appointed you. I’d expect something like that from McCall, but Dan Ford…” His shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “I don’t know what’s become of the legal profession. When I was practicing, handling a case like this, it meant something. Now it’s to be avoided because it might hurt the firm’s business.”

  He looked at Scott with an expression of genuine puzzlement.

  “Do lawyers today care about anything except money?”

  Scott spoke the truth: “No, sir, not in my experience.”

  The judge grunted. “Scott, may I ask you a personal question?”

  “Sure, Judge.”

  “Your speech, that day at the bar luncheon…did you mean it, what you said about defending the innocent, protecting the poor, fighting for justice?”

  Lie or tell the truth? Scott saw in the judge’s eyes the desperate hope that he had meant it, so his first inclination was to do what experienced lawyers do often and well: lie. But the judge needed to hear the truth today. So A. Scott Fenney, Esq., went against fourteen years of legal training and told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  “No, sir. Not a word. I said what those lawyers wanted to hear.”

  The judge nodded solemnly and said, “I appreciate your honesty, Scott. I’m letting you off the case.” The judge’s eyes dropped to his docket sheet. He began writing. “I’ll substitute Mr. Herrin. He seems capable. He’s certainly written some good briefs.”

  Two months ago, Scott would have jumped for joy at the judge’s words. But now he sat stunned and suddenly afraid of losing his last client, even a nonpaying client, because a lawyer without a client is just a man.

  “Judge, I know I’m not the lawyer you are, or the lawyer my mother wanted me to be…hell, I’m not even the lawyer I wanted to be. But I’m not a quitter. I never quit in a game, I’ve never quit on anything in my life. I’ll play it out.”

  The judge’s eyes came back up, and now he glared at Scott.

  “This isn’t a goddamn football game, Scott!”

  Scott recoiled at the judge’s harsh voice.

  “This case isn’t about you, your life, you proving something to yourself or Dan Ford or Mack McCall! This case is about Shawanda Jones, about her life! She’s the defendant! It’s her right to counsel, goddamnit!”

  The judge stood abruptly, stepped to the window, and stared out. After a time, he spoke softly.

  “I’m an old judge who needs to retire and tend to his garden. But a case like this comes along, and I know I can still contribute to justice, one human being at a time-and that’s how justice is served, Scott, one person at a time. Today we’re here to protect Shawanda Jones. That woman is my responsibility as long as she’s in the custody of the federal government. Which arrested her, took her from her home and child, and is putting her on trial f
or her life. Now, maybe she did it, maybe she didn’t, I don’t know. But until the jury speaks, she’s innocent in the eyes of the law-and thus in my eyes. And I will protect her. That’s my duty. And her lawyer’s duty is to defend her, to make damn sure the government proves she did it, beyond all reasonable doubt. That’s what the Constitution requires, a lawyer standing up to the government on behalf of a citizen. That’s what it means to be a lawyer, Scott.”

  The judge returned to his desk and sat.

  “When I was practicing, I had half a dozen cases like this, where the defendant’s guilt was truly in doubt, and in each case I made damn sure the government had to prove its case. Which the government did not do. They were innocent, and they were acquitted. Six people, Scott, six human beings whose lives I saved. I cared about those people, and I care about Ms. Jones. I’m not gonna die rich, Scott, but those few cases, they’re my contribution to justice. They’re what made my life worthwhile. Ms. Jones needs a lawyer who cares about her, someone to stand up for her, someone who understands the honor of defending an American citizen facing a death sentence. She needs her hero. You were such a football player, I thought you might be such a lawyer. I was wrong.” The judge picked up his pen. “You’re off the case. I’ll appoint Herrin and postpone the trial.”

  Scott jumped up and leaned over the judge’s desk.

  “Judge, you can’t postpone the trial! It’ll kill her! She’s barely hanging in now. I’ve been telling her it’ll be over soon. If you postpone the trial, she’ll die in her cell!”

  The judge sat back, a curious expression on his face.

  “What’s this, concern for your client?”

  “You’re right, Judge, I haven’t thought about her. But I’m a damn good lawyer, and she needs me.”

  Judge Buford removed his reading glasses and wiped them with his white handkerchief. He replaced them and gazed at Scott.

  “She’s a heroin addict, you know that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you file a motion to have her transferred to the prison hospital, for drug treatment?”

  “I…I never thought about it.”

  “Well, I did. She refused. She wants to be close to her daughter. You ever see a heroin addict go through withdrawal?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Go downstairs and look. She’s going through hell, alone in her cell, so she can see her daughter. What’s that tell you about her? Tells me there’s something good inside that woman, that maybe we need to look past the prostitution and the heroin and not just assume she’s guilty, that maybe we ought to give her the benefit of the doubt. Beyond all reasonable doubt, Scott.” He sighed. “So I’ve got Burns trying to send her to death row on his asinine legal position, which the appeals court will probably uphold, and I’ve got you. There’s no hope for him-he’s the worst kind of lawyer, a political animal, using the law to gain power over the people. And you, A. Scott Fenney…what’s the A stand for, anyway?”

  “Nothing.”

  The judge grunted. “You don’t want power; you just want money. So the question I’ve got to answer is, Is there hope for you? I know you bring her daughter up here to see her, the guards say three, four times a week. That’s good. And that you took her in, to live in your Highland Park home. That’s very good.”

  The judge paused; a chuckle escaped.

  “You’re probably not up for citizen of the year in Highland Park, are you? But that tells me there’s something good inside you, too, Scott, that perhaps there’s still hope for you, that maybe you won’t become another Dan Ford. That one day you might make your mother proud.”

  The judge fell silent and stared at Scott in the same way all those college coaches who had come to the Fenney rent house to recruit him had stared, seeing him in the flesh, trying to size him up, figure him out, decide if he was the real deal. Then Buford abruptly waved Scott off and said, “Go away.”

  “Wh… what? ”

  “Go think about it. I’ve got hearings until noon. You come back then-but only if you’re ready to be her lawyer. If you don’t show, I’ll substitute Herrin and postpone the trial.”

  Outside, Bobby and Ray were waiting.

  “What’s up?” Bobby said.

  Scott shook his head. “Personal.” Then he addressed Ray Burns. “You’re being a prick, Ray.”

  “Yeah, Scott, a prick with a career. A death penalty gets me an office in D.C.”

  “How do you sleep with yourself?”

  Ray laughed. “Uh-oh, a born-again lawyer. Eleven years you spend every waking minute billing hours, making boatloads of money, living in a mansion, driving a Ferrari-how much did that cost your clients? Then you get fired and suddenly you see the light like a dying man: I wanna do good, Lord! Bullshit, Scott. You don’t give a flying fuck about her. She’s just a nigger, right? Two months ago, you were trying to bail on her faster than you can spit, now you’re gonna be her hero? Tell it to Oprah. Oh, and I don’t sleep by myself, Scott, I sleep with a gorgeous redhead from accounting. Who you sleeping with? Not your wife; she’s sleeping with her golf pro.”

  Scott lunged for Ray, but Bobby jumped in between them.

  “Hell, Scott,” Ray said with a little laugh, “don’t worry. The bitch probably won’t live through withdrawal.”

  In one quick movement, Bobby released Scott and punched Ray in the mouth. Ray fell back against the wall.

  Bobby said, “I told you, Ray.”

  “I’m real worried about her, Mr. Fenney,” Ron the guard said. “I’m thinking maybe I made a mistake, taking her H.”

  They were standing outside Shawanda’s cell. Inside, she was lying on her bed facing the far wall, curled up in a ball, her entire body shivering uncontrollably. She was groaning as if she were dying, her skin glistened with sweat, and her legs kicked involuntarily.

  “That’s why they call it kicking the habit,” Bobby said. “Right now, she’d give everything she has in life for one fix.”

  Bobby was rubbing his right fist. “Hitting someone hurts.”

  “I’m proud of you, Bobby.” Scott pointed the Jetta toward Highland Park and said, “You know what pisses me off the most?”

  “The Ferrari?”

  “No, about Burns.”

  “What?”

  “The prick’s right. About me.”

  Bobby worked his hand and said, “What did Buford want?”

  “He wanted to take me off the case. Said he was going to appoint you.”

  “You still want out?”

  “No. I told Buford that, but he told me to think about it, come back at noon, tell him if I’m ready to be her lawyer.”

  They were silent until they exited downtown. Then Bobby said softly: “I can’t try this case, Scotty. I’m not good enough. She needs you.”

  An hour later, Scott left the house by the back door and ran west on Beverly Drive. It was exactly eleven A.M.; he had sixty minutes to make the biggest decision of his life.

  Scott turned south on Lakeside Drive and ran past the stately old mansions that had stood for almost as long as Highland Park had existed. The homes sat higher than the street and looked down on a little park and Turtle Creek, where Scott often took Boo to skip rocks across the water.

  Scott headed west on Armstrong Parkway a short distance, then turned north on Preston Road and ran up the sidewalk, the road to his left and to his right the massive wall that shielded the grand estates of Trammell Crow and Jerry Jones and Mack McCall and-

  Tom Dibrell.

  Scott had damn near run right into the long silver Mercedes as Tom exited his estate and stopped to check for traffic, blocking the sidewalk. They stared at each other across a distance of just a few feet, Tom wearing a suit and tie but cool in the air-conditioned luxury of a German sedan, Scott wearing only shorts and running shoes and sweating profusely in the hundred-degree heat. For eleven years they had talked daily; they had traveled the country, negotiating deals, making deals, and closing deals; they had celebrated vic
tories and lamented defeats; they had eaten together and gotten drunk together; but they had never been friends. Successful lawyers, Scott now knew, have rich clients, not loyal friends.

  Now, seeing this man who had given him his identity and had taken it away, Scott saw a sad man. This man had had four wives, but none of them had made him happy. He had six children by three of those wives, children who chose not to live in this fabulous estate with their father, because their father loved his skyscraper more than he loved them. He was a man who had lawyers, but not friends. Who had money and everything that money could buy, but little happiness. Three weeks ago, after Tom had fired him, if they had crossed paths like this, Scott Fenney might have shot him the finger.

  Today Scott only nodded and smiled at the sad man in his Mercedes-Benz.

  Tom opened his mouth as if to say something, then abruptly broke eye contact and hit the accelerator hard, sending the silver sedan roaring out onto Preston Road. Scott watched Tom drive away in a cloud of exhaust fumes, then started running again. He ran north past the Village and across Mockingbird Lane. A mile later, he turned east on Lovers Lane. He knew now where this run would end.

  His journey took him along the boundary of the Highland Park Country Club, its tall brick wall discouraging gawkers. But there was one break in the wall where wrought iron spanned a few feet, and Scott stopped and looked in. A foursome of old white men was putting out on the seventh green, getting a round of golf in before the summer sun sapped their strength.

  Growing up in Highland Park, Scott had often looked in through this opening at the old white men playing golf; it was like window-shopping with his mother at Highland Park Village, where she couldn’t afford to shop. He’d always said that one day he would be rich enough to own a mansion in Highland Park, play golf at the country club, and buy his mother anything her heart desired at the Village. She had died before he could buy her anything at the Village, but four years ago, when Scott Fenney was admitted to the membership of the country club, he thought how proud his mother would have been of her son. For the last four years, he had played golf with pride inside these walls and looked out at others looking in.