by Mark Gimenez
Today the view was different.
From inside the walls, these old white men had seemed so special because they were so rich. But from outside, they just seemed old. And Scott realized that just as he was looking in at them, they were looking out at him. And in their eyes he saw their envy: they would gladly give every dollar they had to be young again, to have a head full of hair and sharp eyes and a clear mind with a memory that did not play tricks on them several times a day; to again live in a strong muscular body instead of the broken-down body they were left with; to run down the street instead of barely making it back to the golf cart; to again have a prostate gland instead of having to wear a diaper because the surgery had left them permanently impotent and incontinent; to again feel the pleasure of sex. They were looking out at a young man with his life in front of him; he was looking in at old men with nothing in front of them except the end of their lives.
The old men were tended to by their caddies, middle-aged black men wearing white canvas overalls, black men who caught the bus each morning before dawn in South Dallas and rode north to Highland Park to work at a club where they could never be a member because they had been born black. They were good men, like Louis, but they weren’t good enough for the club, these black men who fixed old white men’s divots, found their lost balls, and carried their clubs, all the while performing like actors in Gone With the Wind — “Yassuh, Mistuh Smith, that there swing sure ’nough make you look like Arnold Palmer hisself”-because making these old white men feel like Southern plantation owners meant a bigger tip. Scott had always been uncomfortable with the whole black caddie thing, but he had always employed a caddie for every round because it was club policy.
After each round, he would retire to the men’s grill for drinks and cards with these old white men, and he had felt so proud to be accepted by them, to be seen in their company, to share their special space and breathe their rarefied air. He would hang on their every word-usually jokes and commentary about “niggers” and “wetbacks” and “kikes” made without regard to the presence of the black waiters hovering about. But Scott’s eyes would always meet those of his waiter, and he would feel the heat rise within him. Yet Scott Fenney, who had played football with black guys, showered with black guys, roomed with black guys, and partied with black guys, had never stood up and told those old white men that he would no longer be available for a game of golf with a bunch of racist anti-Semitic sons of bitches in shorts. No, A. Scott Fenney, Esq., had smiled politely at their jokes and nodded approvingly at their commentary so as not to offend them. Because to offend these old white men would have been bad for business.
One day a year or so ago, Scott had asked Dan Ford whether these old white men just hated blacks, Mexicans, and Jews. Dan had laughed and said, “Oh, no, they hate lots of people, not just blacks, Mexicans, and Jews. They hate Democrats, Yankees, Californians, Asians, feminists, Muslims-anyone who’s different from them. See, Scotty, the glory days for these old farts were the fifties, back when they were young and white men ruled Dallas and the only black in their world was their oil, and the Texas Railroad Commission controlled the price of oil in the whole goddamn world. Now the best golfer in the world is black, the mayor of Dallas is a woman, and the price of oil is controlled by a bunch of Arab sheikhs. The only part of their world that’s still run by white men is this club. Drive through those gates and it’s 1950 again. And they aim to keep it that way until the day they die. Like it or not, these bastards own most of Dallas, so if you want to be a rich lawyer in this town you’ve got to join their club. Scotty, my boy, it’s just business.”
Dan Ford was wrong: it wasn’t just business; it was just bigotry. And A. Scott Fenney was wrong: his mother would not have been proud of her son.
Scott gave the members and their caddies one last glance-and noticed one of the caddies staring at him. The caddie’s face changed; he recognized Scott. He smiled and gave Scott a discrete thumbs-up. Scott thought he recognized the caddie but he couldn’t remember his name-he had never asked his caddies their names-but he returned the gesture, then ran on.
A few blocks later his thoughts were still on the club and the caddies and his good mother when he heard a high-pitched voice: “Scott! Scott!” He slowed, turned, and saw an arm waving out the window of a red Beemer: Shit, Penny Birnbaum!
“Scott! Wait!”
Penny was heading in the opposite direction down Lovers, so Scott cut through Curtis Park, two backyards, hit an alley, ran a few more blocks, and came out on Hillcrest Avenue. He turned south and ran along the western boundary of the SMU campus. He entered the campus at University Boulevard right in front of the law school.
He stopped.
Three years he had spent in that building, three years studying the law-torts, taxes, contracts, conflicts, procedure, property, and ethics, a subject he studied in school and quickly forgot in practice. The practice of law isn’t about ethics; it’s about money.
Scott began running again, past the sorority houses placed all in a row, conveniently, he had thought back then, so he wouldn’t have far to walk between girls. And he recalled all the pleasures he had experienced in those houses with those girls, and he found himself wondering, as he had never wondered before, if their lives had turned out well.
He ran along University Boulevard into the heart of the manicured campus, then turned south on Hilltop Lane, which became Ownby Drive and led him directly to the new Gerald Ford Stadium, named after the billionaire Dallas banker, not the former president. He found an unlocked gate, entered the stadium, walked to the nearest ramp, and emerged from the concrete underbelly onto the green grass.
He was alone on the field.
The best times of his life had played out in this small arena-120 yards long, 53^1 3 yards wide. And the worst times, too, he used to think. Glorious victories and crushing defeats. Moments of immeasurable joy and unspeakable sadness. He could still close his eyes and see the crowd. He could still hear them cheering and smell the freshly cut grass. He could still taste his blood. He could still feel football.
Scott climbed the steps to the spectator stands and abruptly did what he had done so often back then: he ran the stands. His arms pumping, his legs burning with pain, he ran all the way to the top. He turned and looked at the downtown skyline in the distance, the skyscrapers silhouetted against the blue sky. Dibrell Tower stood above them all, and on the sixty-second floor, Sid Greenberg was standing in Scott’s office. Sid couldn’t see Scott four miles away, but Scott shot him the finger anyway, just on principle.
Back in college, he had often run the stands at night just so he could sit at the top of the stadium and gaze at the lights of downtown, the Emerald City rising out of the endless Texas plains: Dibrell Tower outlined in blue argon lights; the lighted ball above Reunion Arena looking like a Christmas tree ornament; and Pegasus, the neon red flying horse above the old Magnolia Building. Like so many other young white men, Scott Fenney had been seduced by the lights, by dreams of getting rich in Big D. That’s what they call Dallas-“Big D”-because it’s a mecca for men with big dreams. Big dreamers come to Dallas like sinners to Jesus: you want to get saved, come to Jesus; you want to get rich, come to Dallas. Sitting right here, Scott Fenney had dreamed big.
“That ain’t bad for an old man!”
The booming voice startled Scott out of his thoughts. He searched the stadium until he saw a big black man standing on the sideline below. He looked familiar. Scott walked down the stands toward him. As he came closer, he recognized the man.
“Big Charlie, is that you?”
“Scotty Fenney, how you doing, man?”
Scott arrived and stuck out his hand, but Big Charlie wrapped his huge arms around Scott and bear-hugged him, as if Scotty Fenney had just scored the game-winning touchdown.
Charles Jackson stood six four and weighed 285 pounds-when he was an eighteen-year-old freshman. By the time he was a senior, he weighed 325. He played right guard, which required that he pull
and lead running plays around either end, removing any obstacle from Scotty Fenney’s path. Scott scored the touchdowns, but Big Charlie led the way.
Big Charlie came from Tyler, an East Texas town known for its red roses and black football players. Earl Campbell was the best known, but Big Charlie was the biggest. He attended SMU instead of Texas because he didn’t want to be too far from his mama and his sisters. He drove the two hours home every Sunday morning for church and came back every Sunday night for curfew.
The last Scott had heard, Big Charlie had been drafted by the Rams. Charlie now told him that he had played two seasons and had been a knee injury away from fulfilling his dream. He had returned to SMU, where he had coached the offensive line for the last ten years. Scott had attended most of those games but he’d never noticed Big Charlie. It was a long way down to the sideline from Ford Stevens’s private skybox.
“We could always use a good running back coach,” Big Charlie said. He had read about Scott’s troubles.
“Thanks, but I’ve still got some lawyering left in me.”
“You gonna win?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think she’s innocent?”
“Of murder, but not of killing Clark.”
“Which means?”
“Worst case, she gets the death penalty. Best case, they convict her of second-degree murder, give her twenty years in prison. But she won’t live that long, without heroin or her daughter.”
“Read you took her in.”
Scott smiled. “Yeah, her name’s Pajamae; she’s a great kid. You got kids?”
Big Charlie nodded. “Two girls, seven and ten.”
“I bet you’re a good dad.”
“I love those two kids more than football.”
“They’re lucky then. Anyway, Pajamae was down in the projects by herself, so I went down there and got her-”
“You went into the projects? By yourself?”
“Yeah, in a Ferrari.”
Big Charlie’s head rolled back, and he let out a belly laugh. “White boy in a Ferrari down in the projects-that must’ve been a sight! I’m amazed you got out alive!”
“I had a friend, Louis. He ran interference for me, like you used to. He’s living with us now, too. Anyway, first night, Pajamae did my daughter’s hair in cornrows. Rebecca damn near fainted.”
Big Charlie smiled. “How you doing since she left?”
Scott shook his head. “I only cry at night.”
“That’s ’cause you got heart, Scotty. You cried when we won and you cried when we lost. You cried ’cause you cared, about winning, about your team, about me. You know, Scotty, I never told you, but you were my hero.”
Scott must have appeared shocked, because Charlie said, “No, man, I mean it. A hundred ninety-three yards against Texas-nobody does that! You wouldn’t quit and you wouldn’t let me quit. Twenty-three end sweeps that day, pulling my big butt around right end, then left end, then right end: I thought I was gonna die right out there on the field. But I’d look at you, getting the crap beat out of you every play but getting up and never quitting…man, you were tough.”
Scott sighed. “Life is tougher.”
“No, it ain’t. You’re forgetting your heart. Look inside yourself, it’s still there. Scotty, God gave you a gift back then, your athletic ability. But what we did out there, that was just a game. That girl’s life, that ain’t no game.” He put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Scotty, don’t you see? God’s given you a better gift than being a football star. You’ve got the ability to save that girl’s life.”
Scott looked at Big Charlie, who had given everything he had to Scott Fenney on a football field; and now, on a football field again, he had given Scott even more. At that moment, Scott realized that he needed Shawanda Jones as much as she needed him. He needed to be her hero. It was who he was. It was who he wanted to be again. It was what had been missing in his life. Scott was brought out of his thoughts when the bells at the Methodist church on the campus rang out.
“Shit, what time is it?” Scott asked.
“Noon, straight up,” Big Charlie said.
“Damn, I’m late!” Scott held his hand out, but Big Charlie bear-hugged him again. Scott said, “Thanks, my friend.”
And he ran toward the Emerald City.
United States District Court Judge Samuel Buford was sitting in his chambers behind his desk checking his watch. Twelve-thirty. No Scott Fenney. He wasn’t going to show.
Sam Buford sighed. He had thought there was hope for young A. Scott Fenney, Esq. But he had thought wrong. Fenney had the brains to be a hero, no doubt; and Buford had hoped he still had the heart. But now he saw that he didn’t. There was no hope for Scott Fenney…or for Shawanda Jones…or for the law.
At that very moment, Sam Buford decided to retire.
His time had come. He would retire and tend to his garden. Clear out those weeds, till the soil, plant carrots and squash and cabbage and tomatoes, maybe go organic; get that garden in good shape, something he hadn’t had time to do since…well, ever. Yep, time to put down the gavel and pick up the hoe.
He buzzed his secretary on the intercom and said he needed to dictate several orders. First order, postpone the trial date in United States of America versus Shawanda Jones. Second order, substitute counsel for Scott Fenney. But who? Herrin? The boy was a good writer, no doubt about it; but the defendant needed a hero, not a writer. He wished he were still Samuel Buford, attorney-at-law. He’d take her case. He’d be her hero. But he was Judge Samuel Buford. Soon to be a retired judge. Third order, dictate his resignation letter. As usual, Helen was prompt. In seconds the door swung open and-
Scott Fenney stood in the doorway, wearing only running shorts and drenched in sweat.
“Judge, I’m ready to be her lawyer.”
Sam Buford damn near got out of his chair and walked over to embrace the young lawyer, but that would probably violate some rule of judicial ethics, so he reined in his emotions.
“All right, son. Her life is in your hands. I hope you’re man enough to handle that responsibility.”
“I am. And, Judge, I’ll make her proud. My mother.”
Scott Fenney turned and walked out the door. Helen stepped into his place, dictation pad in hand.
“Ready, Judge?”
Buford waved her away. “Go back to your desk, Helen. I’ve got judging to tend to.” Helen turned away. “Oh, Helen, wait.” She turned back. “Get me Bob Harris on the phone.”
“Bob Harris?”
“He’s the INS regional director.” Buford leaned back and smiled. “My mama always said, one good deed deserves another.”
TWENTY-THREE
On Saturday the circus came to town.
Men and women, boys and girls, young and old, the wealthy residents of Highland Park came in droves. They parked on the side of the street, without the benefit of valets. They braved the 110-degree pressure cooker of a day and walked a block or more up the sidewalk to 4000 Beverly Drive. They had come to see something that only happened in other parts of Dallas County, in those neighborhoods into which they did not venture.
A yard sale.
But this was not a yard sale offering used toasters, beat-up couches, hand-me-down clothes, and an assortment of toys, baby strollers, car seats, and golf clubs. No, this yard sale boasted a walnut sideboard by Francesco Molon, a mahogany bookcase by Bevan Funnell, a pecan armoire by Guy Chaddock, a leather chair by Ralph Lauren, and a billiard table by Brunswick. It promised an assortment of sofas and tables and lamps and bedroom suites and Oriental rugs, an eclectic mix of furnishings with only two things in common: the former lady of the house once fancied them, and they were terribly expensive. It offered designer clothes, footwear, and accessories for women-dresses by Rickie Freeman and Luca Luca, handbags by Louis Vuitton and Bottega Veneta, shoes by Dior, Donna Karan, Marc Jacobs, and of course Jimmy Choo, shirts by Anne Fontaine, and silk scarves by Hermes. And there were girls’ clothes by J
acadi Paris. In all, over $500,000 worth of pricey personal possessions were on sale. And while Highland Parkers might joke about white trash and minorities engaging in curb shopping and Dumpster diving, a bargain purchase is a basic human desire that transcends race, color, creed, national origin, political affiliation, or socioeconomic position.
So they came.
They came up the brick-paved driveway and arrived at the rear motor court and backyard and four-car garage where the Fenney family possessions were on display and for sale. For cash. Pajamae told Scott you don’t take checks or credit cards at yard sales.
At dinner a week before, Boo had asked Scott what they were going to do with all of their stuff. They had enough things to fill the little house by SMU five times over. Scott said he didn’t know, but Pajamae said she did: “Have a yard sale, Mr. Fenney.” Pajamae had volunteered to run it because of her prior experience as a customer at numerous South Dallas yard sales. So the day of the event Scott was sitting at a makeshift checkout counter at the entrance to the motor court and taking cash from buyers while Pajamae and Boo made the sales.
“Two hundred,” said the old lady in the sun hat who had introduced herself as Mrs. Jacobs.
“Now, Miz Jacobs,” Pajamae said, “Miz Fenney, she paid two thousand dollars for that couch, and you want to buy it for two hundred? We priced it at seven hundred but”-she glanced around and lowered her voice-“long as you don’t tell Mr. Fenney, I’ll let you have it for six.”
“I’ll take it.”
With her Sharpie, Pajamae wrote “SOLD” and “JACOBS” on the tag and changed the price to $600. She pointed at Mr. Fenney.
“Pay the man.”
Mrs. Jacobs walked toward Mr. Fenney.
“Yoo-hoo, little colored girl!”
An old biddy was waving at Pajamae from over by the garage. Pajamae walked over. The woman was pointing at a leather chair.
“Is that a Ralph Lauren?”
“Lady, I’m not colored, I’m black. Well, I’m a quarter black, at the most. See, my mama’s daddy was white and so was my daddy. So that’d make me a quarter black and three-quarters white.” She smiled at the woman. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if we were related! And no, ma’am, that’s not Ralph Lauren, that’s a chair.”