by Mark Gimenez
"Consuela has breakfast ready."
The girls went one way down the hall and Scott the other. He entered the "master suite" of the two-bedroom, fifteen-hundred-square-foot cottage. The master closet in his former residence dwarfed the small bedroom and adjoining bath. Scott undressed in the bathroom, stepped into the cramped shower, and stood under the hot water. The mansion and material possessions that had once given his life value were gone. His ambitious years, that period in a man's life when human nature and testosterone drive him to prove his net worth to the world—when the score is kept in dollars and cents—were over. For most men, the ambitious years extend well into their fifties, even their sixties, and come to an end only with a heart attack or a positive prostate exam, when a man confronts his mortality. But it wasn't the prospect of his own death that had brought his ambitious years to a premature end for A. Scott Fenney, at age thirty-six; it was the death of a U.S. senator's son.
He got out of the shower, shaved, and dressed in a $2,000 custom-made suit; the suits and Consuela were all that remained of his past life. She was part of the family, and the suits still fit. And he was still a lawyer.
Scott returned to the kitchen where the girls were eating breakfast tacos and playing with Maria.
"Last day of school, girls." Scott sat and ate his taco and studied his adopted daughter's face. "Pajamae, are you wearing makeup?"
"Blush, Mr. Fenney, like Beyoncé. You like it?"
"What's a Beyoncé? And please call me 'Dad.' It's been a year and a half."
"Don't seem right, Mr. Fenney."
"Why not?"
" 'Cause you're Boo's daddy."
"I'm your daddy, too, and don't you ever forget it." He drank coffee and said, "So what do you girls want to do this summer?"
"The other kids are going to Colorado, Hawaii, the south of France …"
"We can't afford that, Boo."
"What can we afford?"
"Well, we could camp out in a state park."
"That'd be fun. We could never go camping with Mother. She hated to sweat."
"Boo, she's still your mother."
"I don't have a mother."
Her anger seeped out from time to time. Or was it a sense of shame? Everyone in Highland Park knew her mother had run off with the golf pro.
Scott turned back to Pajamae. She seemed glum, too.
"Pajamae, smile—you're about to graduate from fifth grade."
"She doesn't smile because the other kids make fun of her," Boo said.
"Because of her color?"
"Because of her teeth."
"Her teeth?"
"My teeth are all crooked, Mr. Fenney. It's embarrassing."
She needed braces. Ten thousand dollars worth of dental work. Scott paid $30,000 in annual health insurance premiums for the three of them plus Consuela and Maria, but the plan did not include dental.
"Mr. Fenney, when I'm playing pro basketball, how am I gonna do endorsements with crooked teeth? You see Michael Jordan's teeth? Look like a string of pearls."
"Honey, I'll find a way to pay for braces, okay? Before next school year."
"You promise, Mr. Fenney?"
He nodded. "I promise."
She started to smile but caught herself.
Braces for Pajamae. Another financial promise he wasn't sure he could keep, like the mortgage and office overhead—unless he won the case that day and the city didn't appeal the verdict and …
Boo stood and tossed her napkin on the table.
"Let's get this fifth grade over with."
Ten minutes later, Scott was driving the Volkswagen Jetta to the elementary school past the mansions of the most important people in Dallas—or at least the richest. The streets of Highland Park were no longer vacant. Mothers were taking their offspring to school, and fathers were taking themselves downtown. From the back seat, he heard Pajamae's voice, sounding spooky.
"Boo … I see white people."
They fell over each other laughing hysterically. They had seen The Sixth Sense—the edited version on network TV—and were always coming up with new variations on the "I see dead people" line.
Of course, Pajamae did see white people. Only white people. Exactly one black family lived in Highland Park … and one black girl named Pajamae Jones-Fenney. The Town of Highland Park was a two-square-mile enclave entirely surrounded by the City of Dallas—the bright white hole in the middle of the multicolored Dallas donut. Few people of color could afford to live in Highland Park—the median home price was $1 million—and those who could, like the pro athletes who played football for the Cowboys, basketball for the Mavericks, and baseball for the Rangers, weren't so keen on being protected by a police force whose standard operating procedure for traffic stops was "If they're black or brown, they'd better have tools in the back."
"A. Scott," Boo said from the back seat, "since we can't go to the south of France this summer, can we at least get cable?"
"No."
"Can we have a cell phone? We can get a family plan."
"No."
"Can we have a Facebook account?"
"No."
"Can we get our ears pierced?"
"No—and why would you want holes in your ears anyway?"
"I don't, Mr. Fenney," Pajamae said.
"A. Scott, we're the only kids we know without cable, iPhones, pierced ears, a Facebook, or who haven't seen Juno."
"Because it's rated PG-thirteen and you're not thirteen."
"It's PG-thirteen for mature thematic material and sexual content and language, but they only say the F-word once. We hear it more than that at recess."
"Kids say the F-word?"
"Hel-lo. Come on, A. Scott, we're practically teenagers."
"Two years, Boo. It'll come soon enough. Enjoy being eleven. When you're older, you'll miss it."
"Do you miss being eleven?"
"I miss being nine."
"Why nine?"
"I lost my dad when I was ten."
"We lost our mothers when we were nine."
So they had. The girls were quiet for a few blocks then Boo said, "So can we at least have cable? Just for the summer. Please."
"Boo—"
"A. Scott, it's hard on us—at school, living in Highland Park …"
"Because you don't have cable?"
"Because we don't fit in."
"Why not?"
Pajamae joined the fray. "Because I'm the only black kid in town."
"And we're the only kids without a mother. We're different, A. Scott. Walking around the Village, everyone looks funny at us."
"And cable will make life easier for you?"
"Yes."
Scott had steadfastly refused their pleas for cable. But he now felt his resolve weakening: he couldn't give them a mother; he could at least give them the Discovery Channel. He was just on the verge of saying yes when he caught the girls grinning mischievously in the rearview. They were gaming him. Again.
"No."
"But we can't watch Sex and the City reruns like the other kids."
"Fifth-graders watch Sex and the City?"
"Oops. Forget Sex and the City. Think Discovery Channel."
"I was … and no."
She frowned as if pouting, but Boo Fenney wasn't the pouting type.
"She was wrong," she said.
"Who?"
"That lady on TV, she said girls should view conflict situations in personal relationships as opportunities to get what we want."
"Really?"
"Unh-huh. But she was wrong—it didn't work."
"Not with me."
"I didn't think it would, but I thought I'd give it a shot." Boo sighed. "Fudge."
"Boo, don't say fudge. Everyone knows what you're really saying."
"I like fudge," Pajamae said. "With pecans."
They arrived at the elementary school. Scott felt like the class loser at a high school reunion when he steered the little Jetta into the drop-off lane behind a long line of l
ate-model Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, Lexuses, Range Rovers, and just in front, a Ferrari … a shiny red Ferrari … a 360 Modena just like the one he used to drive … he looked closely at the car … that was the one he used to drive. He caught the driver's face in the side mirror.
Sid Greenberg.
When he was a partner at Ford Stevens, Scott had hired Sid out of Harvard Law School and taught him everything he knew about practicing law, but Sid now sat in Scott's sixty-second-floor corner office, represented Scott's rich real-estate client, and drove Scott's $200,000 Italian sports car. The ungrateful bastard. Scott could still smell the Connolly leather interior and feel the four-hundred-horsepower engine rumbling behind him. The Ferrari's passenger door swung open, and Sid's young son got out—Hey, that's cheating, letting your kid out before the official drop-off point!—so Sid could avoid waiting in line like everyone else. Scott shook his head. Typical lawyer. But when Sid turned his head to check for oncoming cars before pulling out, he had a big grin on his face, as if laughing at Scott driving a Jetta.
You laugh, Sid, but I'm saving a lot of money on gas.
Sid Greenberg had made the same choice Scott had made at his age. Two years ago, Sid had decided to check his conscience at the door each day and now he was driving a Ferrari. Two years ago, Scott had rediscovered his conscience and now he was driving a Jetta. Funny how that worked for lawyers.
"A. Scott, you need sex."
He eyed Boo in the rearview. "What?"
"You look stressed. Just then, you were frowning. Sex relieves stress."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"From Meredith."
"Who's Meredith?"
"On the Today Show, this morning."
"You girls need to watch PBS in the morning."
"Sesame Street? I don't think so. Anyway, Meredith said stress is a leading cause of heart attacks in men. So if you have sex you won't have stress and thus you won't have a heart attack … like Sarah's dad."
Bill Barnes, a lawyer Scott knew, had died of a sudden heart attack earlier in the school year. Little Sarah Barnes would grow up without a father. The girls had always fretted over their only parent's health—every blemish on Scott's face could be skin cancer, every headache a stroke, every memory lapse a sign of early onset Alzheimer's—their worries exacerbated by the relentless barrage of drug commercials on network television. Each new commercial brought a new medical worry for the girls. But since Sarah's dad, a heart attack had been their constant worry. They had recommended he take Lipitor to lower his bad cholesterol, Trilipix to raise his good cholesterol, Plavix to prevent his platelets from forming blood clots, and Crestor to prevent plaque from building up in his arteries. Sex, though, marked a new and more agreeable course of therapy. Unfortunately, it required more than a doctor's prescription.
"Don't worry, Boo, I'm not going to have a heart attack. I run every day, I still weigh one-eighty-five, my cholesterol's low—"
"Besides, it's embarrassing."
"What is?"
"You're tall, blond, handsome, you don't have tattoos—you're the hunk of Highland Park and you don't have a girlfriend. The other kids think we have a loser for a father."
"I don't think it's because I don't have a girlfriend."
"Suzie's stepmom, she looks like a supermodel, and her dad's not exactly the cutest puppy in the pet store. He's bald."
"He's a billionaire."
"Oh. Well, that explains it."
"Mr. Fenney, you need a woman."
"Like Ms. Dawson," Boo said.
Up ahead, Ms. Dawson, the fourth-grade teacher, was working carpool. Her jet black hair glistened in the morning sun. She couldn't be older than twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine. Scott had thought of asking her out, but it hadn't even been two full years since Rebecca had left him. Still, Ms. Dawson was very attractive in her form-fitting blouse that accentuated her narrow waist and her snug slacks that—
"Ms. Dawson would probably have sex with you."
"You really think so?" He caught himself. "I mean, Boo."
The girls giggled. They knew all about sex now. Fifth-grade health class. Which was a blessing; Scott didn't have to have the talk with them, just as his father had never had the talk with him. His mother had said to his father at dinner one night, "Butch, it's time you had a father-son talk with Scotty. You know, about sex." Butch Fenney had turned to his son and said, "Don't have sex. Pass the potatoes." But sex was more complicated these days and more dangerous. Sex can kill and eleven-year-old girls were having babies, so kids had to know the truth. Explaining the facts of life to girls was a mother's job; but they had no mother so the job had fallen to their father. Just when Scott had bucked himself up to do it—he had even bought a book—the girls had come home armed with all the facts. Thank God. A major single-father hurdle had been cleared.
"Ms. Dawson has nice cheeks," Boo said.
"Very nice."
"The ones on her face."
"Oh."
"She's got a crush on you, A. Scott."
"Really?"
"Big time, Mr. Fenney. During lunch, she'll mosey on over and say, 'Hi Boo, hi Pajamae,' you know, like she's just visiting. Then she'll get around to asking, 'So how's your father doing these days?' And I'll say, 'Oh, 'bout the same as yesterday, Ms. Dawson.' Then she'll blush like white girls do and say, 'Well, tell him hi.' She's got the hots for you, Mr. Fenney."
"She does?"
"A. Scott, we're at that age—we need a mother. Ask her out. Please."
"Oh, I don't know …"
Pajamae let out an exasperated sigh. "Man up, Mr. Fenney, and ask that woman out!"
Scott eased the Jetta up to the drop-off point. Ms. Dawson opened the back door for the girls then leaned down. She said, "Hi, Boo, hi, Pajamae," but she looked at Scott. The girls leaned forward and kissed Scott on opposite cheeks and whispered in his ears—
"Ask her!"
"Now!"
—then climbed out of the car and ran up the walkway to the entrance. Before she shut the door, Ms. Dawson stuck her head in and said, "Scott, if I invited you over for dinner this summer, would you come?"
He wanted to say yes, but he said, "No."
Her face sank.
"Ms. Dawson—"
"It's Kim, Scott. It's been Kim for two years."
"Kim. I'm sorry. I've got to work through some things first … my ex-wife …"
"How long will she own you, Scott?"
"I don't know."
She shut the door on him. Scott sighed and exited the school drive, cut over to Lovers Lane, and hit the Dallas North Tollway heading south toward downtown. He tried to put thoughts of Kim Dawson and Rebecca Fenney out of his mind and focus on a subject matter he knew more about than women: the law.
But he could not know that before the day was out his ex-wife would again assert ownership over his life.
THREE
In a courtroom on the fifteenth floor of the Federal Building in downtown Dallas, A. Scott Fenney addressed a jury of twelve American citizens.
"Forty-six years ago, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated just a few blocks from where you now sit. The world's press descended on this city and exposed the ugly side of Dallas: a police force that ran roughshod over black citizens … a district attorney who won white votes in North Dallas by sending black men in South Dallas to prison … a city known as the 'Southwest hate capital of Dixie' … a city run by rich white men who retired to East Texas on weekends to hunt and fish at the Koon Kreek Klub … a city President Kennedy himself described as 'nut country.' That was Dallas in nineteen sixty-three."
Scott stood before the jury of nine whites, two Latinos, and one African-American. Dallas was a minority-majority city now, but money still ruled. Money makes the law and the law protects the money; and lawyers protect the people with money. But not this lawyer. Not anymore. Scott was representing all residents of South Dallas in a class-action lawsuit against the City of Dallas. When he had left the Ford Stevens law firm—th
at is to say, when he had been fired two years before—Scott had gone to the other side, from representing corporations that pay to people who can't—not what most lawyers would call a shrewd career move; from representing those whom the laws protected to representing those whom the laws oppressed—the "dissed" of Dallas. The dispossessed, the disenfranchised, the disrespected.
And so it was that day.
"That image of Dallas shocked the world—including the business world. And above all other things, Dallas was a city of business, by business, and for business. So the rich white businessmen who ran Dallas decided to polish up the city's image.
"Back then, seedy bars, strip clubs, and liquor stores lined the streets of downtown. Those businessmen wanted to close the liquor stores, but couldn't; the stores were grandfathered under the zoning ordinance. So they struck a deal with the liquor industry: if they moved out of downtown, they could have free rein in South Dallas. Not in North Dallas where white people lived, but in South Dallas where black people lived.
"At the time, South Dallas was a thriving community of small businesses and families living in neat homes. Today, there are three hundred liquor stores in South Dallas—twenty-five stores per square mile—and South Dallas is a community of drunks, drug dealers, addicts, hookers, crack houses, and crime. And citizens are prisoners in their own homes, hiding behind burglar bars. There are no grocery stores, no shopping centers, no Starbucks in South Dallas. There is only liquor and hopelessness. That is the reality people in South Dallas live with every day. Those businessmen changed the image but not the reality of Dallas.
"But you can. You can change that reality today. You can get rid of the liquor and give the people of South Dallas hope. Right here and right now, you have the power to change Dallas.
"Those liquor stores are grandfathered under the zoning ordinance, just as they were in downtown. The only way to get them out of South Dallas is to buy them out—at a cost of one hundred million dollars. The city leaders say they want to redevelop South Dallas, but they just can't afford that price tag. It's the economy, they say. Of course, the city can afford billions for a convention center hotel, for the basketball arena, for the Trinity River project, for everything North Dallas wants, but they can't afford to get rid of liquor stores in South Dallas.