The Color of Law sf-1

by Mark Gimenez

  “You forgot?”

  “Yeah, I forgot.”

  “Okay, Mr. Lund, we’ll go with that. You arrived in Dallas on Saturday, June fifth, at eleven A.M. and you left Sunday afternoon on US Airways flight number 1812 at four-fifty-five P.M.?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “So why did you come to Dallas for just thirty hours?”

  Delroy grinned. “To get laid. To pick up a two-bit hooker”-he gestured at Shawanda-“like Blondie there and get laid.”

  “Mr. Lund, do you usually carry a handkerchief?”

  “Yeah. Allergies.”

  “May I see it?”

  He reached back, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and held it out to Scott.

  “Keep it.”

  Scott walked over to the defendant’s table to get a pad and pen. He looked at Shawanda and froze…her hair was brown. Not blonde like the…Scott glanced over at the prosecution table…wig. The wig she had been wearing that night was blonde. Delroy just called Shawanda “Blondie.” Delroy had been there that night.

  Delroy Lund murdered Clark McCall.

  Scott’s adrenaline pump kicked in like an overdrive. His mind started working fast. The murderer was sitting in the witness chair ten feet away, but Scott had nothing to tie this man to that crime. Delroy Lund was an experienced lawman; he had left no incriminating evidence at the crime scene. Scott’s only hope was to get Delroy to confess on the stand, to break down and blurt out the truth, to tell the world that he had murdered Clark McCall. A Perry Mason moment. A moment lawyers dream of. A moment that happens only on TV and in the movies.

  Scott walked over to the witness stand and placed the pad and pen in front of Delroy.

  “Mr. Lund, would you please sign your name?”

  Delroy shrugged, picked up the pen with his right hand, and signed his name.

  “You’re right-handed, Mr. Lund.”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “So the FBI’s forensic expert testified that the person who shot Clark McCall was right-handed. You’re right-handed, the murderer was right-handed. The murder occurred in Dallas on June fifth, you were in Dallas on June fifth.”

  “Ninety percent of the people in this room are right-handed. And more than that were in Dallas on June fifth.”

  “Yes, but none of them had a reason to kill Clark McCall, did they?”

  “You’ll have to ask them.”

  “I’ll ask you: Did you kill Clark McCall?”

  The judge was studying the witness when Ray Burns stood to object. “Your Honor-”

  “Sit, Mr. Burns,” the judge said without removing his gaze from Delroy. Ray sat. “Answer the question, Mr. Lund.”

  Delroy said, “No, I didn’t kill Clark. Why would I want him dead? I work for his dad.”

  “Who wants to be president.”

  “So?”

  “So if it became known that his son used cocaine and engaged prostitutes and maybe even raped a few girls, Senator McCall’s chances of getting into the White House would be about as good as the defendant’s, isn’t that true?”

  Delroy snorted. “Give me a fuckin’ break.”

  The judge: “Mr. Lund, watch your language.”

  Delroy said, “Hell, if having a screwup for a kid was a motive for murder, half the politicians in D.C. would’ve already killed their kids. I don’t know nothing about rapes, but you think Clark was the only politician’s kid out drinking and doing drugs and other stuff their daddies want to keep quiet? The town’s full of ’em, rich kids who had life handed to them on a silver platter then shit on it.”

  “Mr. Lund, why did you decide to get laid in Dallas on June fifth?”

  Delroy shrugged. “Most beautiful women in the world are in Dallas.”

  “That may be true, but you work for Senator McCall in Washington. Certainly you could have found an acceptable prostitute in the nation’s capital so you could remain in town, especially since two days later, on June seventh, the senator was scheduled to announce his campaign for the presidency. But instead of staying in D.C., you came to Dallas on June fifth to get laid, on the same day Clark came to Dallas? Mr. Lund, did you come specifically to kill Clark?”

  Delroy sighed. “I said, I didn’t kill Clark.”

  “Then why did you come to Dallas? Why did you leave Washington two days before Senator McCall’s big day? Why did you fly down to Dallas to pick up a prostitute instead of staying in Washington and protecting the senator-”

  It hit Scott.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that simple, isn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You didn’t come here to kill Clark. You came to Dallas to protect Senator McCall.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Mr. Lund, what usually happened when Clark was in Dallas?”

  “I give, what?”

  “He got in trouble. He always came home to get into trouble. Fact is, Clark was smart enough to get in trouble only in Dallas, because here his daddy could buy his way out of anything. The McCall name means something in Dallas. The McCall money can buy anything in Dallas-even seven rape victims.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know anything about that.”

  “And the last thing Senator McCall needed right before he announced for the presidency was Clark getting arrested, and not just for drinking or drugs-like you said, that’s common. But getting charged with rape, that’s not so common, is it? Particularly for the son of the next president. The press would go into a feeding frenzy, maybe even dredge up the other girls. The senator had spent millions to keep Clark’s past hidden so it wouldn’t ruin his political future. And now the presidency was his, he had a commanding lead in the polls, his dream was about to come true…and what was the only thing that could lose the White House for him before he had even won it? A rapist for a son. That would do it. That would destroy Senator McCall’s dream, wouldn’t it?”

  Scott pointed back at the senator in the spectator section.

  “When Senator McCall learned that Clark was coming to Dallas right before his big announcement, he sent you here to follow Clark, to keep him out of trouble.”

  Scott held up another document from Carl’s envelope.

  “Clark had booked a return flight to Washington on June sixth at three-twenty-one P.M. so he would be back for his father’s campaign kickoff. The senator knew that if Clark was flying to Dallas just for a Saturday night, that meant only one thing: his demons were calling again and he was answering. He was coming home to get drunk and stoned and pick up a girl. And the senator knew what usually happened when Clark’s dark side took over-exactly what he couldn’t let happen. He couldn’t wake up Sunday morning and read that his son had been arrested for beating and raping another girl in Dallas. So he sent you to Dallas to make sure that didn’t happen. Your job was to wet-nurse Clark, to be his guardian angel, to keep him out of trouble and out of the press. You came to Dallas to protect Senator McCall from his own son.”

  Delroy’s eyes again looked past Scott to McCall. Scott turned to McCall as well, and what he saw surprised him. In the senator’s eyes and on the senator’s face Scott saw that he had it exactly wrong. He turned back to Delroy.

  “The senator didn’t send you, did he? You freelanced this one. You ran this operation without his approval. Why? Why didn’t you tell the senator? Did you think it best to keep him out of the loop? Did you just not want to bother him right before his big day?” Scott shook his head. “Either way, you came here to make sure Clark didn’t screw things up for his father. That’s why you came to Dallas on Saturday, June the fifth, isn’t it, Mr. Lund?”

  “No.”

  “You flew to Dallas, you rented a car, you followed Clark that night, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “You followed him down to Harry Hines where the prostitutes hang out, didn’t you?”

  “No
.”

  “And there you watched Clark pull his Mercedes over to two black girls, one wearing a red wig, the other a blonde wig, isn’t that right?”

  “No.”

  “The girl in the blonde wig got into Clark’s car, didn’t she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That girl was the defendant, wasn’t she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then why did you just refer to the defendant as ‘Blondie’?”

  “I…”

  “Her hair isn’t blonde, Mr. Lund, it’s brown. She hasn’t worn her blonde wig since that night. She’s been in jail, Mr. Lund.”

  Scott stepped to the prosecution table, removed the blonde wig from the evidence bag, and handed it to Shawanda.

  “Your Honor, may the defendant put on the wig?”

  “Yes.”

  Shawanda pulled the wig on. Scott returned to the podium and pointed at Shawanda.

  “Mr. Lund, you saw the defendant wearing that wig that night-that’s the only way you’d know to call her ‘Blondie.’ You saw her get into Clark’s car. You followed them to the McCall mansion in Highland Park. You parked out of sight on the estate. You figured Clark couldn’t get into too much trouble with a black hooker. Oh, he might slap her around, but what’s she gonna do, call the cops? She wasn’t an SMU coed, she was just a hooker. So you sat outside while Clark had his fun.

  “But then you saw the defendant drive off in Clark’s Mercedes. You ran inside and upstairs to Clark’s bedroom and you found Clark lying naked on the floor and holding his balls. And you…you laughed at him. The little rich boy got kneed in the balls by a black hooker, that was pretty damn funny. So you laughed at Clark. You mocked him. Did you call him a little fuckup?”

  “I wasn’t there.”

  “Clark didn’t like that, did he, someone like you mocking him? You were just an employee, and employees don’t mock Clark McCall. So he cursed you. You outweighed him by, what, a hundred pounds? But the alcohol and cocaine made him brave and getting beat up by a hooker made him mad, so he cursed you just like he cursed her. And then he…what? What else did he say to you? What could he say that would make you want to kill him?”

  Scott snapped his fingers and pointed at Delroy.

  “He threatened to get you fired. He was gonna tell Daddy and get you fired. Now, maybe he could, maybe he couldn’t, but you couldn’t take the chance. Because what would you do if he did get you fired, go back to the DEA? Not with your record. Your job prospects weren’t exactly bright, were they, Mr. Lund? Hell, if you got fired, your best hope for a job would be as a security guard at Wal-Mart. Delroy Lund, former big-shot DEA agent chasing Mexican drug lords on the border reduced to chasing shoplifters in a parking lot. That was your future without Senator McCall, wasn’t it? And that pissed you off, didn’t it, that little rich boy lying naked there on the floor, threatening your future? That little fuckup!

  “Things got out of hand again, didn’t they, Mr. Lund? Clark got in your face just like that Mexican boy in Del Rio. Rage took over. You wanted desperately to kill Clark McCall. You saw a pistol lying there on the floor. You pulled your handkerchief from your pocket. You wrapped it around the pistol and picked the pistol up with your right hand. You stepped over to Clark. You reached down with your left hand and you grabbed the little fuckup’s hair and yanked his head up. Then you put the gun to his forehead above his left eye. And you pulled the trigger. You killed Clark McCall just like you killed that Mexican boy in Del Rio, didn’t you, Mr. Lund?”

  Delroy’s eyes again went to Senator McCall. Scott turned and watched as bodyguard and senator stared at each other for a long moment; then McCall’s eyes dropped. His face sagged and he suddenly looked old, either from the realization that his own bodyguard had murdered his son or that his dream of living in the White House was over for good. Scott returned to Delroy.

  “You thought the defendant would be blamed. Her gun, her fingerprints, but you didn’t know one critical fact. You didn’t know she was left-handed. That’s what happened that night. Things got out of hand and you killed Clark McCall. Didn’t you, Mr. Lund?”

  Scott paused. All twelve jurors were leaning forward as if bracing against a wind. Judge Buford had turned in his chair and was focused intently on the witness. Ray Burns’s expression said he knew his coveted Washington assignment had just been lost. Bobby and Karen and Shawanda were practically on top of the defendant’s table. Dan Ford’s elbows were resting on the back of the pew in front and his hands were folded, as if praying. Boo and Pajamae were holding hands like finalists in a beauty pageant. The entire courtroom was waiting to hear Delroy Lund confess to killing Clark McCall. Scott decided Delroy needed a little push; he decided to get in Delroy’s face.

  He grabbed the crime scene photo of Clark McCall from the defendant’s table and asked the judge for permission to approach the witness. When the judge nodded, Scott walked to the witness stand and dropped the photo in Delroy’s lap under his now downcast eyes. Then he got in Delroy’s face.

  “Come on, Delroy, admit it! I know you killed Clark! This jury knows you killed Clark! Even the senator knows you killed Clark!”

  Delroy’s face was red and sweaty. His breathing became faster and labored. His blood pressure was rising, causing the veins in his bald head to protrude like blue ropes against his white skin. His meaty hands closed in on the photograph in his lap and crumpled it into a ball, mashing it mightily as if trying to pulverize the memory of Clark McCall into pulp. Scott knew things were about to get out of hand; Delroy’s rage would soon take over and he would scream: Yeah, I killed Clark! Yeah, I killed that little fuckup!

  But when Delroy’s big bald head finally turned up, his eyes were defiant. He said, “Then prove it.”

  “The defense rests, Your Honor.”

  Ray Burns tried to save his Washington job by calling FBI Agent Henry Hu to the stand again and eliciting somewhat reluctant testimony that a left-handed person could have fired the murder weapon with her right hand. When Ray sat down, Scott stood and picked up the nearest document.

  “Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fenney.”

  Scott walked around the defendant’s table and toward the witness stand, and at the last moment, stumbled on an imaginary obstacle, tossing the document to the floor next to the witness stand. As Scott righted himself, Agent Hu, courteous as always, got out of the chair, took two steps, leaned over and picked up the document. Standing no more than two feet from the jury box, Agent Hu held the document out with his right hand.

  Scott said, “Agent Hu, are you right-handed?”

  Agent Hu realized his silent testimony, that he had picked up the document with his right hand because that was the natural thing to do, what anyone would do, even Clark McCall’s killer. He smiled slightly.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “No further questions.”

  Karen and Bobby were cooking pasta in the kitchen, the girls were taking their baths, and Scott was slumped on the floor, mentally and physically exhausted. Bobby opened the refrigerator, pulled out two beers, walked over to Scott, and held one out to him.

  “No matter what happens tomorrow, Scotty, you’ve done right by her.”

  “Thanks, Bobby. And just so you know, I did this for Shawanda. Not to get back at Mack McCall or Dan Ford. For her.”

  “Thanks for telling me that, Scotty. I needed to know.”

  “I know. And thank you, Bobby.”

  “For what?”

  “For doing this, being part of this, working your tail off even though you’re not getting paid.”

  The beer halfway to his mouth, Bobby froze: “I’m not getting paid?”

  After prayers, Pajamae opened her eyes and said, “Mr. Fenney, I don’t want that McCall man to be the president.”

  Scott smiled. “Me neither.”

  “And that Delroy, he’s a bad man, isn’t he, Mr. Fenney?”

  Boo said, “He killed Clark?”r />
  “He is and he did.”

  “Is he going to jail?”

  “I don’t know.” Scott stood. “You girls go to sleep. We’ve got another big day tomorrow, closing arguments, maybe a verdict.”

  “Mama might get out tomorrow?”

  “She might. But she might not.”

  Pajamae thought about that, then said, “Thanks, Mr. Fenney.”

  “For what, baby?”

  “For caring about my mama.”

  Scott removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Pajamae, my life is better now because of your mother. And because of you.”

  THIRTY

  A Scott Fenney, ESQ., stood before the twelve members of the jury and said: “When I was a boy, my mother used to read her favorite book to me at bedtime, To Kill a Mockingbird. You might’ve read it or seen the movie. It’s the story of a little girl and her father, a lawyer named Atticus Finch. He was an honorable man and an honorable lawyer, unusual even back then, in the 1930s when the story took place.

  “Every night my mother would say to me, Scotty, be like Atticus. Be a lawyer. Do good. She even named me after him, Atticus Scott Fenney. Well, my mother’s dead and I’m a lawyer, but I’m no Atticus Finch. I haven’t done much good. I made a lot of money, but I didn’t make my mother proud.

  “But that’s another story.

  “Or maybe it’s the same story. Because this story, our story, the story playing out in this courtroom, is also about making your mother proud.

  “See, in the book, Atticus was appointed to represent a black man named Tom Robinson. Tom was accused of beating and raping a white girl. Atticus showed the jury that the girl had been beaten by a left-handed man because the right side of her face was bruised, but that Tom’s left hand was disabled due to an accident years before. Atticus proved that Tom didn’t do it. And Atticus also showed the jury that the girl’s father was left-handed and a mean drunk to boot. Well, everyone in the courtroom knew that Tom didn’t commit the crime and that her father did. But the jury, twelve white men, convicted Tom Robinson anyway, just because he was a black man.