The Color of Law sf-1
Page 34
“Now, that story took place in Alabama in the thirties-in a different time and a different world, back when the color of law was black-and-white. But our story is taking place seventy years later, in Dallas, Texas. The world’s a different place today, things have changed-not everything and not everywhere and not enough, but in our courts of law things have surely changed. Judges have changed. Juries have changed. The color of law has changed. It’s no longer black-and-white. My former senior partner told me the color of law is now green. Today, he said, the rule of law is money. Money rules. And he’s right. Lawyers use the law to make money, politicians sell the law to special interests for money, people sue each other for money. Everywhere in the law, it’s all about money-except one place. Right there where you’re sitting, in that jury box. You’re not here for money. You’re here for the truth.
“And what is the truth of this story? The first truth is, Clark McCall was murdered by a right-handed person, a person strong enough to yank him up off the floor, mean enough to stick a gun to his head and look him in the eye when he pulled the trigger, and experienced enough in the ways of murder investigations to know how not to leave incriminating evidence behind. The truth is, Delroy Lund murdered Clark McCall.
“The second truth is, Delroy Lund followed Clark to Dallas, followed him down to Harry Hines, saw him pick up the defendant wearing her blonde wig, and followed them home to Highland Park. When he saw the defendant driving off in Clark’s Mercedes, he went inside. He found Clark alive, naked and holding his privates after being kicked in the groin by the defendant. He laughed at Clark and Clark got mad. Clark cursed Delroy, Delroy got mad, and Clark got killed. Things got out of hand, and Delroy killed Clark.
“And the third truth is, Shawanda Jones is innocent. Clark McCall was killed by a right-handed person. Shawanda Jones is left-handed. She didn’t do it.
“That’s the truth. That’s what the evidence shows. We’ve proved that the defendant is innocent and we’ve answered the question this trial presented: Who killed Clark McCall? Now there’s only one part of this story left and you’ve got to write it: the ending. How is this story going to end? Like To Kill a Mockingbird, with an innocent defendant convicted just because she’s black? Or are you going to write a new ending, where the color of law is not black or white or green, where truth and justice prevail even if the defendant is poor and black?”
Scott paused and glanced over at the judge for a long moment, then turned back to the jurors. He said: “Ladies and gentlemen, before Judge Buford appointed me to represent the defendant, I thought I was a winner in the game of law-and that’s how I viewed the law, as just a game. When I tried a case, I wanted to win. I wanted to beat the other lawyer. It wasn’t about truth or justice; it was just about winning…and money. But I was wrong. The law isn’t a game. It’s not about winning or money. It’s about truth and justice…and life. Today, it’s about the defendant’s life.
“This case has given me a chance to do something I had never been able to do before as a lawyer: make my mother proud. I hope I did that. I hope my mother is finally proud of me.” He paused. “And I hope you’ll make your mothers proud of you, too.”
The judge instructed the jury at 11:45. The jurors retired to the jury room for lunch and deliberations, Judge Buford to his chambers, Shawanda to her cell, and Scott, Bobby, Karen, and the girls to the house on Beverly Drive.
Scott had waited for jury verdicts many times in his career, all in civil cases where only money was at stake. While waiting for his last jury verdict, he had spent the time back in his office calculating alternate bills for his client, one at a straight hourly billing if they lost, and one with an added bonus if they won. Clients won or lost, but the lawyers always won.
This case was different.
It wasn’t about money; it was about Shawanda’s life. Twelve people were deciding whether she would live or die, whether she would spend the rest of her life in prison or free, whether Pajamae would have a mother or a memory.
The court clerk called at 1:30. The jury had a verdict.
“Ms. Jones,” Judge Buford said, “please rise.”
Shawanda Jones and her three lawyers stood and turned to the jury. Several jurors, black and brown and white, had tears in their eyes, as Shawanda did in hers. Scott felt Shawanda’s hand next to his, trembling, her entire body shaking. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
The foreperson of the jury handed the verdict to the bailiff who handed it to the judge. Judge Buford put on his reading glasses, gazed at the piece of paper, then raised his eyes to the defendant.
“In the matter of United States of America versus Shawanda Jones, the jury finds the defendant not guilty.”
Shawanda sagged and would have fallen to the floor if Scott had not caught her. She buried her face in his chest and embraced him. He held her tightly, his tears mixing with hers. Boo and Pajamae ran to them as the courtroom erupted in cheers and shouts and applause. The jurors hugged each other, reporters crowded Scott and Shawanda, Ray Burns sat at the prosecution table shaking his head, and Bobby and Karen kissed like newlyweds. Senator McCall pushed his way through the crowd and out of the courtroom. Dan Ford sat shaking his head in wonderment at the turn of events. Shawanda whispered in Scott’s ear, “That a righteous name, Atticus.”
Scott turned to the bench and his eyes met Judge Buford’s. The judge nodded at Scott and Scott nodded back.
Shawanda Jones was free. Half an hour later, they finally made their way through the mob of reporters and cameras and to the sidewalk fronting the federal building. Dan Ford was waiting there. Scott sent Shawanda and the girls ahead and walked over. Dan held out his hand and Scott took it.
“Scotty, my boy, you are one fine lawyer.”
“Dan, I’m not your boy anymore.”
“Yes, well…look, Scotty, Mack won’t be in the White House now, so why don’t you come back? You can have your old office, I’ll fix things with Dibrell and the bank, you can buy another big house, get the Ferrari back…you can go back to your old life-with a substantial raise, say a million a year. Not bad for a thirty-six-year-old lawyer. What do you say?”
There was a time. And a place. And a lawyer.
But they were no more.
“Dan, I’m just not the Ford Stevens type.”
Scott turned away from Dan Ford only to find his path blocked by another familiar face: Harry Hankin.
“Harry! How you doing, buddy?”
During his four-year tenure as a member of the country club, Scott had played golf with Harry most Saturday mornings-and usually won a hundred bucks from Harry most Saturday mornings. Harry fought a wicked slice. They shook hands, and Scott threw a thumb back at the courthouse.
“You got a trial?”
Harry Hankin was the premier divorce lawyer in Dallas, admitted to the membership of the country club only after his written promise never to represent a member’s wife.
“Uh…well…no.” Harry glanced down at his shiny shoes, then back up. “Here.”
Harry held out a thick document, almost as if he were embarrassed. Scott took the document and his trained eyes immediately found the caption: PETITION FOR DIVORCE.
“I wanted to do this personally, Scott, so I could explain.”
“She filed for divorce?”
Harry nodded. “Trey, the pro, he hired me-or he’s paying me. He’s already won a tournament, a million bucks, so he can afford me.”
Scott almost laughed. “We played golf how many times, Harry? A hundred? And you’re taking money from the guy my wife ran off with?”
“I couldn’t say no, Scott-he cured my slice.”
Scott laughed now. “Well, sure, Harry, straightening out your golf swing, that’s pretty goddamned important.”
“You thought so once.” Harry turned his hands up. “Look, I’m sorry, Scott.”
“Is she happy?”
Harry shrugged lamely. “I was married to a woman like her. With them, yo
u never really know.”
“Does she want Boo?”
“What?”
Scott held up the petition. “Does she want custody of Boo?”
Harry shook his head slowly. “No. She said the PGA tour is no place for a little girl. And she said you need Boo more than Boo needs her.”
Scott started to walk away, but stopped when Harry said, “Scott.” Scott turned back to the divorce lawyer. “I’ll take his money, Scott, but I’d never take your girl.”
The two lawyers locked eyes, and Scott recalled that some years back, Harry Hankin had lost his own children in a bitter divorce.
“Thanks, Harry.”
Scott caught up with the others a block down the street, where Louis was leaning against his old car and Shawanda was turning in circles, her arms spread, her face to the sky, a young beautiful woman, her tan skin radiant in the sun’s reflection. Pajamae and Boo were watching and laughing joyously. Scott smiled at the sight. It was without question the best moment of Atticus Scott Fenney’s legal career.
Boo said, “A. Scott, they want to help us move.”
“Boo, I don’t think Shawanda wants to spend her first free day in three months helping us move.”
Shawanda said, “Yes, I do, Mr. Fenney. Me and Pajamae, we come tomorrow. Louis, he bring us over.”
Louis walked over to Scott and they shook hands.
“You a good man, Mr. Fenney.”
“Thanks, Louis, for watching the girls. For everything.” To Shawanda, Scott said, “Look, I want you to go into rehab, okay. I’ll pay for it.”
“Thought you ain’t got no money?”
“I sold my house. And I want you to work for Bobby and me, we’re gonna start a firm. I want you and Pajamae out of the projects.”
“Thanks, Mr. Fenney, for being my lawyer. And for caring about me.”
Shawanda smiled and reached up and touched his cheek and gazed at him in the oddest way, as if memorizing his face. She stretched up and he leaned down and she kissed his cheek.
“I ain’t never gonna forget you, Mr. Fenney.”
And he would never forget her. And when Scott Fenney returned home, he would be greeted by enchiladas and Consuela de la Rosa, who had just arrived by bus from the border-the INS had granted her green card “out of the blue,” Senor Gutierrez had said when he called her that morning. He did not know how and he did not know why and she did not care; she only knew that now she would always live with Senor Fenney and Boo, her familia. And later that night when Scott Fenney tucked his daughter into bed and kissed her good night, she would smile up at him and say, “See, A. Scott, there are happy endings in real life.”
EPILOGUE
The girls squealed with delight.
Four months later, Scott was sitting in his pajamas and robe on the couch in the small house over by SMU and smiling as the girls opened their presents early on Christmas morning.
Their lives had been irrevocably changed.
This Christmas, he didn’t have a wife and Boo didn’t have a mother. Rebecca had left and never come back. Every few weeks, he still found Boo crying quietly in bed, and he had cried when the divorce became final. But they were both doing better now. He was sure he wouldn’t marry again, despite Boo’s attempts at matchmaking; she said her teacher had a really big crush on him. Ms. Dawson did seem nice at carpool.
But Boo now had Pajamae and Pajamae had Boo. They attended fourth grade at Highland Park Elementary where Pajamae was the only black girl and Boo the only white girl with cornrows. They were like sisters, and would be when the adoption was final.
Scott had Bobby and Bobby had Karen and Consuela had Esteban and they were having a baby who would be an American citizen. They had married a month ago in a traditional Mexican wedding in the Cathedral Santuario de Guadalupe Catholic Church in downtown Dallas. Scott gave the bride away and Boo was her maid of honor.
Scott also had Big Charlie back in his life. He often brought his girls over to play with Boo and Pajamae. But they no longer talked about playing football in the old days; they talked about raising kids in these new days. Scott Fenney and Charles Jackson were fathers now and that was good enough.
Scott lost the state bar election to a big firm lawyer in Houston. He now practiced law with Bobby and Karen on the second floor of an old Victorian house renovated into office space and located just south of Highland Park. The Fenney Herrin Douglas law firm represented the thirty homeowners whose residences were being condemned by the city to make room for Tom Dibrell’s hotel; and they were preparing a class-action suit on behalf of the residents of the South Dallas projects against the city for violation of federal fair housing laws. Louis had gone door-to-door signing up residents; Scott’s suddenly lofty reputation in the federal judicial system had allowed him to resolve all of Louis’s outstanding issues with the Feds. Bobby still represented his regulars from the Mexican bar in East Dallas; charges against Carlos Hernandez were dropped due to prosecutorial misconduct. He was training to be a paralegal and acted as translator for their Hispanic clients. Scott wore jeans to the office, ate lunch once a week with the girls in the school cafeteria, and played hoops with Bobby and John Walker at the YMCA.
His office faced due south and offered a nice view of the downtown skyline. He could sit at his desk and see Dibrell Tower out his window. Karen’s ex-secretary at Ford Stevens told her that the firm would close out the year with record profits. Dan Ford sat on top of his world, perfect but for the fact that vandals had repeatedly slashed the tires of his Mercedes-Benz in the parking garage, while Sid Greenberg sat in Scott’s former office, drove Scott’s former Ferrari, and practiced aggressive and creative lawyering for Scott’s former client.
Oddly enough, Scott felt no satisfaction when Frank Turner filed a $10 million sexual harassment lawsuit against Tom Dibrell on behalf of the blonde receptionist; or when Harry Hankin filed a divorce petition against Dibrell on behalf of Tom’s fourth wife alleging infidelity and seeking over $50 million in community property; or when the Environmental Protection Agency filed suit in federal court against Dibrell Property Company and Thomas J. Dibrell jointly and severally seeking $75 million in costs required for the cleanup of lead contamination on the fifty-acre tract of land located adjacent to the Trinity River.
Scott did feel relieved when Delroy Lund was arrested and charged with the murder of Clark McCall and obstruction of justice in the Shawanda Jones case; Hannah Steele agreed to testify. Mack McCall withdrew from the presidential race but was elected senate majority leader; soon after, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Ray Burns was now an Assistant U.S. Attorney in Lubbock. United States District Court Judge Samuel Buford remained on the bench in Dallas.
Right after the trial, Scott had moved Shawanda and Pajamae out of the projects and into a rent house near Highland Park. He paid for Shawanda’s drug rehabilitation; she fought hard and gave it all she had, but she couldn’t break the hold heroin had on her. Two months after the trial, Shawanda Jones injected heroin into her right arm, drifted off to sleep, and never woke up. Pajamae missed her mama very much, but said she’s in a better place now where she doesn’t need her medicine to be happy. She prayed for her mother every Sunday morning when Scott took the girls to church.
Scott had begun reading a new bedtime book to the girls: To Kill a Mockingbird. They loved Boo Radley.
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