The Color of Law (27 page)

“Excuse me,” she said.

“Hello, Hannah,” the man said.

Hannah looked up at the big bald man in front of her and started to cry.

The only open chair was next to Penny Birnbaum.

Scott and Bobby had returned home and eaten lunch with Louis and the girls. Scott had then driven the Jetta to the title company that was closing the sale of 4000 Beverly Drive. The receptionist led him to the small conference room where he would sign over his home to Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Birnbaum.

Penny was smiling and patting the seat of the empty chair.

Scott introduced himself to Joy, the closing agent sitting on the near side of the table next to Jeffrey, who was poring over the stack of documents like a jeweler over a new batch of uncut diamonds. Scott walked around the table, sat next to Penny, and scooted his chair up under the table. Before he had settled in, her right hand was on his left knee.

“I still need to measure for furniture, Scott,” she said.

She was wearing a sundress that accentuated her round breasts and narrow waist. Her hand moved up to Scott’s thigh and began closing in on his crotch. He reached down, grabbed her wrist, and placed her hand firmly in her lap. She pushed out her lips in a pouty face. But when he released her wrist, her hand returned to his thigh like a spring-action screen door slamming in place. She smiled.

Joy pushed a pile of papers across the table to Scott and began reciting the numbers shown on the closing statement.

“Three-point-four million sales price due to the seller, less deductions for the loan payoff, two-point-eight million principal plus twenty-four thousand eight hundred ninety accrued interest, the title policy premium, nineteen thousand, miscellaneous title company charges for the escrow fee—”

“Two-fifty?” Jeffrey said.

Joy said, “Standard charge.”

“But there’s no escrow.”

“We still charge the fee.”

“But—”

“I’ll pay the two-fifty, Jeffrey,” Scott said.

He wasn’t in the mood to argue over a $250 charge in a $3.4 million deal. Even with that deduction, Scott would net over $500,000 from the sale. After paying taxes and closing on the little starter home by SMU, with the rest of his 401(k) and the $67,000 from the yard sale, he’d have enough to start a new life.

He removed Penny’s hand again and whispered, “Stop!”

Across the table, Jeffrey and Joy were huddled over the buyer’s closing documents, more voluminous because of the mortgage documents between Jeffrey and his bank. Scott’s thoughts drifted back to that day three years ago when he had signed similar mortgage documents to purchase this very home, but before he could get very far he felt a soft whisper in his ear: “I’m not wearing any panties.”

Penny pulled back and their eyes met. Her eyes dropped and led his down. She twisted slightly in her chair and spread her legs a little and slowly slid the end of her dress up to reveal her tanned lower thighs, her smooth upper thighs, and finally that lovely intersection of thighs and torso. Scott inhaled sharply. She wasn’t lying.

Scott felt the blood rush southward. He began signing the closing papers as fast as his hand could scribble his signature: the closing statement, lien affidavits, nonresident alien certification, tax proration agreement, and the deed conveying his dream house to Jeffrey Birnbaum et ux Penny Birnbaum. Scott’s hand trembled when he signed
A. Scott Fenney
. He pushed the deed across the table to Jeffrey. And with that, his dream home was gone. He felt as if he had handed over his manhood.

But he knew he hadn’t because Penny had a firm hold on his manhood below the table. Scott’s face felt hot, whether from the emotion of signing away his home or the movement of Penny’s hand, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that he had to get out of this closing fast, so he scratched his name on the final document, the temporary lease by which he would lease the home back from the Birnbaums for ten days, enough time to vacate the premises. He pushed the paper across the table to Jeffrey, who glanced up from his stack of documents and at the lease, then at Scott and Penny and back to Scott, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“What the hell’s going on?” he said.

Scott froze, as did Penny’s hand.

“Uh, what do you mean, Jeffrey?”

Jeffrey picked up the lease. “Ten days? It was supposed to be seven.”

Scott exhaled with relief; Penny’s hand went back to work.

“Jeffrey, you moved up closing to today.”

“Well, can’t you get out sooner? We’re ready to move in.”

“No, Jeffrey, I can’t. I’ve got a murder trial starting Monday—you might’ve read about it. That’s a little more important than you getting into my house a few days earlier.”

“It’s not your house anymore, Scott.”

Jeffrey said it with the arrogance of a man completely unaware that at that very moment his wife was massaging another man’s penis.

That night, after prayers, Pajamae asked Scott, “So those twelve people are going to decide what happens to Mama?”

“Yes, baby, they are.”

“Do you trust them, Mr. Fenney?”

“Well…I don’t know them well enough to know whether I trust them or not. I hope they can find a way to be fair.”

Pajamae said, “I’m going to pray for them.”

“The jurors?”

She nodded. “Mama always says to pray for other people, so they do the right thing. Like she said I should pray for you.”

TWENTY-FIVE

W
HEN
S
COTT WOKE UP
on Sunday morning, his mind instantly filled with fear. The trial would begin in twenty-four hours: Was he a good enough lawyer to save Shawanda? For the last eleven years, when he needed help, Scott had always gone to Dan Ford. Now he needed help and his thoughts went to Butch Fenney: Son, when you need help, hit your knees.

Scott rolled out of bed, put on his shorts, and hurried down the hall and up the stairs to the third floor. He found the girls on the bed. Pajamae was fixing Boo’s cornrows.

“Get your clothes on, girls, we’re going to church.”

Boo’s mouth fell open.

Louis led the way up the sidewalk to the front entrance of the small church in East Dallas and Pajamae said, “I wondered why y’all never went to church. Mama and me, we go every Sunday. I figured maybe white people just didn’t go to church.”

“Why didn’t you say you wanted to go?” Scott asked.

“Wouldn’t have been polite, Mr. Fenney.”

Scott Fenney had attended church regularly with his parents, but after Butch died, he’d lost any enthusiasm he had for religion. Why would God take a good man like Butch Fenney? But he still attended church with his mother until she died. The last time he had entered this church was for his mother’s funeral.

The preacher had nothing on Big Charlie.

Before they had parted back at the stadium that day two weeks ago, Big Charlie had said, “When God gives you a gift, it doesn’t mean you’re special. It means you’re blessed.”

Scott finally understood what his mother had meant when she had said he had a gift and she didn’t mean football. He knew that his entire life had led him to this one moment, to this trial, to Shawanda Jones. The judge was right: She needed a hero. She needed him. And he needed her. But it had been a long time since Scott Fenney had been someone’s hero. And he honestly didn’t know if he had it in him to be a hero now.

He glanced down at the two little girls sitting next to him. Boo and Pajamae turned their eyes up to him, the way he had often turned his eyes up to Butch in this very church. He remembered his father’s words again, and he slid forward and knelt.

And he prayed for help.

A mile away, Bobby Herrin was sitting in his dingy office drafting a trial brief. The front door was propped open because the landlord didn’t turn on the air-conditioning on Sundays. He inhaled and caught the scent of cheap cologne. He looked up. Standing in the door was a white man, bald, burly, and thick-necked. Delroy Lund.

Carl’s more thorough background check on Delroy Lund had revealed a DEA career checkered with reprimands for unnecessary use of force. Carl said he was digging deeper, but he hadn’t reported back yet.

Bobby tried to maintain his composure, but flinched when Delroy reached into his coat.

“Don’t try anything, Delroy! I yell out, Joo-Chan will come over—and he knows karate!”

Delroy chuckled. “That gook knows how to make donuts—but not on Sunday. You’re all alone, Herrin.”

But Delroy didn’t pull out a gun; he pulled out an envelope. Bobby exhaled with relief. Delroy tossed the envelope on the desk. Bobby opened it; inside was a check made payable to Robert Herrin, Esq., for the sum of $100,000. Bobby suddenly felt better about his standing in the legal profession: finally, he was important enough to be bribed. He examined the check.

“Bank check issued by a Cayman Island bank. That’s cute, Delroy. Not traceable back to McCall.”

“We ain’t stupid.”

“That’s open for debate.”

“Here’s the deal, Herrin. That little fuckup Clark ain’t gonna cheat his dad out of the White House, alive or dead. So you got a choice: take the money and get out of town or get arrested.”

“For what?”

“Dealing drugs.”

“I don’t have any drugs.”

“You will when I’m finished. I’ll call my buddies at the DEA and they’ll bust your ass.”

“With your record at the DEA? I don’t think so. I’ll tell them you planted the drugs, take a polygraph, and they’ll arrest you. So, what, McCall thinks Scotty can’t defend her without me? Scotty doesn’t need me.”

“He proved that before, didn’t he?” Delroy grinned. “You’re the only conscience he’s got, according to Burns.”

Bobby replaced the check and tossed the envelope to Delroy.

“Get out.”

“You’re making a big mistake.”

“Won’t be the first time. See you at the trial, Delroy.”

“Sorry, I can’t make it.”

“Sure you can.” Bobby picked up a subpoena, wrote
Delroy Lund
in the witness blank, and tossed it to Delroy. “You’re served, asshole.”

As soon as the word was out of his mouth, Bobby knew he had pushed Delroy’s button—and that he shouldn’t have. Delroy bent over and picked up the subpoena from the floor. He glanced at it; his face changed. He came over to Bobby, grabbed Bobby by the shirt, and yanked him halfway out of his chair. Delroy’s mouth was about six inches away from Bobby’s face when he said, “You little mother—”

“Hey,
hombre
!”

Standing in the door was Carlos Hernandez. Carlos was six feet tall, weighed maybe one-ninety, and was dressed for church: black leather pants, black pointed boots, a black T-shirt tight on his muscular tattooed arms, and two-inch silver bracelets on each wrist. His black hair was slicked back.

“Get your stinkin’ hands off my lawyer, gringo!”

The two men glared at each other. Finally, Delroy chuckled, released Bobby, walked a few steps, then turned back.

“Oh, your star witness took her check. She figured a vacation was better than being fish bait in Galveston Bay.”

Delroy laughed as he walked out the door past Carlos’s mean face. When he was gone, Carlos broke into a big grin and said, “Good thing you got me bail, huh, Mr. Herrin?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Carlos.”

Carlos held out a twenty-dollar bill. “From my mother.”

“Can we go see Mama?” Pajamae asked.

Scott opened the car door for the girls and said, “Sure.”

The drive from the church in East Dallas to the federal building in downtown took only minutes on the vacant Sunday morning streets. Louis stayed outside in the car. Scott and the girls went inside and rode the elevator to the fifth floor. They were escorted to the small bare room and waited for Shawanda. When she entered the room, she hugged Pajamae and Boo. Then Scott hugged her.

When he released her, he held her shoulders and said, “Shawanda, don’t be afraid of what might happen at the trial. With Hannah Steele testifying, we’ve got a fighting chance. And if we lose, we’ll appeal all the way to the Supreme Court.”

Shawanda smiled softly. “I ain’t scared, Mr. Fenney. People like me, we been on the wrong side of life long enough to know what to expect in a courtroom. But most of all, I ain’t scared ’cause you my lawyer.”

An hour later, they arrived back home to Bobby’s car parked in the driveway and Bobby sitting on the back steps smoking a cigarette. Bobby said, “Hannah Steele’s disappeared. McCall bought her off or Delroy scared her off; either way she ain’t testifying. We’re screwed.”

TWENTY-SIX

S
COTT PARKED
the Jetta in an open lot two blocks down from the federal building. There was no shade to be found, so he lowered the windows an inch hoping the inside temperature wouldn’t rise high enough to melt the dashboard, then he climbed out. The girls followed him, both wearing the best outfits Rebecca had purchased for Boo at Neiman Marcus. Pajamae had on a white sundress with black polka dots and a wide-brimmed white hat; Boo wore a light blue sundress with a matching hat. They looked like two little Southern belles—except for the cornrows.

Scott pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket, removed his glasses, and wiped away the sweat already accumulating on his forehead. He then replaced his glasses, put on his coat, locked the car, and picked up his briefcase. He paid the attendant ten dollars for all-day parking, and then they walked up the street. Scott felt like he always did right before a game, his body alive with nervous energy, particularly when the opponents he would soon face were bigger, stronger, and meaner.

He looked down at the two little girls walking in front of him. Boo was the love of his life and Pajamae had become like a second daughter to him. They were excited, as if they were going to the zoo instead of a murder trial, chatting and giggling—until they turned the corner onto Commerce Street.

Then all three of them froze. Hundreds of people were gathered at the front entrance to the federal building: local, network, and cable TV vans lined the street, their satellite dishes and camera crews ready to capture and transmit breaking news; several dozen police were keeping the peace. It was the media circus Buford had promised.

“A. Scott, who are all those people waiting for?” Boo asked.

“Me.”

He pulled the girls close and forged ahead. When they were spotted, the cameras and reporters came rushing forward like the kicking team rushing downfield to tackle number 22 returning the opening kickoff. Scott would rather have faced those foaming-at-the-mouth football players than these crazed reporters wanting a sound bite for the evening news. They stuck microphones in his face and shouted from a foot away:

“Is Shawanda claiming self-defense?”

“Will other women testify that Clark raped them?”

“Are you gonna call the senator to testify?”

To all of which Scott answered, “No comment,” and pushed ahead. But then they went after Pajamae, sticking microphones in her face and shouting at her:

“Do you think your mother killed Clark?”

“Where will you live if she’s convicted?”

“Do you still love your mother?”

Scott got mad. He shoved the microphones and cameras away.

“Leave her alone!”

But Pajamae had stopped dead in her tracks. Her head was tilted up at the last reporter, an odd expression on her face, and she said in the softest voice: “Of course, I love my mama.”

Her words struck the reporters silent. A little black girl had embarrassed the media circus into submission. The crowd parted and allowed Scott and his two little girls free passage into the courthouse.

They got off the elevator on the fifteenth floor and walked down the hall and around the corner to Judge Buford’s courtroom, where Delroy Lund was sitting on a bench, reading the sports pages. They hadn’t seen each other since that day at the Village, but Delroy only glanced up at Scott and then back at the newspaper, without comment or expression. Per his subpoena, Delroy was legally obligated to sit outside the courtroom for the duration of the trial, waiting to be called inside to testify.

Scott pulled the big double doors open and escorted the girls into the courtroom, up the center aisle to the front row, and as he was pointing out where they should sit, he glanced back at the second row and found himself staring at United States Senator Mack McCall and his wife. And they stared back. Scott thought he noticed the senator’s right arm come up slightly, as if he were going to reach over and shake Scott’s hand, a politician’s habit, but the senator pulled back. Scott’s eyes fell on Jean McCall; she looked straight into his eyes and her eyebrows rose slightly, as if asking a silent question, then she recrossed her legs, left over right. The movement drew Scott’s eyes down to her short skirt, and she looked away, but ran her hand down the length of her smooth thigh. Scott was turning his head back to the girls when he noticed Dan Ford. His former senior partner, mentor, and father figure was sitting next to Jean McCall with a grim expression. Dan broke eye contact with Scott and looked down, slowly shaking his head.

Scott got the girls settled in on the jury side of the spectator section. He wanted the jurors to see the defendant’s daughter and think,
How could the same person be a loving mother and a cold-blooded murderer?

“Oh, that’s a nice touch.”

Ray Burns’s smart-ass voice. Scott turned to his adversary, but Ray just shook his head and walked to the prosecution table. Bobby and Karen were already seated at the defendant’s table.

“Clark McCall was lying on the floor of his bedroom, writhing in pain after being kneed in the groin, when the defendant, Shawanda Jones, walked over to him, grabbed his hair, yanked him up, stuck the barrel of her .22-caliber pistol to his forehead, and pulled the trigger, killing him instantly. Then she stole his money and his car. Shawanda Jones murdered Clark McCall, a federal official, during the commission of a robbery. That is what the evidence will show. And that is why I will ask you to return a verdict of guilty and a sentence of death.”

Assistant United States Attorney Ray Burns turned away from the jury, walked from the podium back to the prosecution table, and winked at Scott, knowing that he had just made a very effective opening statement, telling the jury exactly what he would prove and knowing he could back up his words.

“Mr. Fenney,” Judge Buford said.

Scott stood and glanced at the spectator section crowded with gawkers gathered to witness a trial the likes of which Dallas had never seen. At the back of the courtroom were the groupies, old men who came to the courthouse each day like other old men went to the golf course. Next up were several rows of the general public who had lined up outside before daybreak to get a seat. Then came five rows of reporters taking notes and courtroom artists sketching portraits. Then came an assortment of lawyers and state court judges who viewed the trial as continuing legal education. And finally there were Senator McCall and his wife, McCall staring holes in Scott’s skull, Jean just staring, and Dan Ford shaking his head. Directly in front of them, Boo and Pajamae sat like two little prim and proper Highland Park girls, knees together, hands in their laps. He looked at Boo and she smiled and gave him an emphatic thumbs-up. He wished he shared her confidence. He walked over to the podium and faced the jury. He would not dispute the government’s evidence. He would only dispute the government’s conclusions.

“Shawanda Jones is a prostitute and a heroin addict. She’s not present this morning because she’s sick; she’s suffering withdrawal. Judge Buford permitted me to make you aware of her illness so you would not hold her absence against her. If you remember, at jury selection, I asked only one thing from each of you, and that was to give Shawanda a fair shake.”

There was a time, not that long ago, when a black defendant could not get a fair shake in a Southern courtroom; when a complete stranger could walk in off the sidewalk and, without knowing anything about a case, instantly pick out the defendant, the only black person in the courtroom; when a jury of a black defendant’s “peers” would be white men. But the times had changed and so had the law. Scott now looked into the eyes of the black and brown and white men and women sitting in the jury box—the teacher, the mechanic, the nurse, the bartender, and the others—and wondered if they could be fair.

“You hold her life in your hands. Listen carefully. Think for yourself. Be fair.”

Dallas Police Officer Eddie Castille swore to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God” and sat in the witness stand. Castille was in his midtwenties, Hispanic, a young cop eager to please, and still under the impression that he could make a difference on the streets of Dallas. He was the prosecution’s first witness. Ray Burns addressed him from the podium.

“Officer Castille, what is your position with the Dallas Police Department?”

“Patrol officer.”

“Were you patrolling the Harry Hines vicinity of Dallas on the afternoon of Sunday, June sixth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And during that patrol did you come upon an abandoned Mercedes-Benz?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please tell the jury what you did next.”

“I saw the vehicle parked on a side street and pulled up to it. We don’t generally see cars like that in the Harry Hines area, except at the strip joints. The vehicle was unoccupied, so I ran the plates. Dispatch came back, said it hadn’t been reported stolen, said it was registered to a Mack McCall.”

“As in Senator Mack McCall?”

“Yes, sir, that’s what dispatch said, but I didn’t know who that was.”

That brought light laughter from the courtroom and a self-deprecating shrug from the senator.

“And then what did you do?”

“The registration address was in Highland Park, so the duty sergeant said he would call Highland Park PD and have them go over to the residence.”

“And did that end your involvement with this case?”

“Yes, sir, other than waiting for the car to be towed to impound.”

“And what time was this?”

“Approximately one
P.M.
”

“Thank you, Officer Castille. No further questions.”

Judge Buford turned to Scott, who said, “No questions, Your Honor.”

“Mama, you okay?”

Instead of going out each day for lunch, the defense team had decided to eat lunch with the defendant. So they were now in the small bare conference room, eating the ham and cheese sandwiches the girls had made that morning. Scott pulled his coat off the chair back and wrapped it around Shawanda’s shoulders. His client was having chills again.

“Yeah, baby.”

“Why can’t you have your medicine?”

“Don’t know.”

“Mama, the jury people keep looking over at me.”

“That ’cause you so pretty.” She warmed and she said, “How the trial going, Mr. Fenney?”

“Nothing much this morning, Shawanda.”

“Mama, that Mr. Burns, he’s a little prick. He stood right up there and lied to those jury people. He told them you killed that McCall boy, just like he meant it.”

“He did, baby.”

After the lunch break, Ray Burns, the little prick, called Sergeant Roland James of the Highland Park Police Department as the prosecution’s second witness. Sergeant James was one of those middle-aged cops who had long ago made his peace with the fact that he wasn’t going to make a difference, so he would just ride out his shift until his pension kicked in. He testified that he had been on duty on the afternoon of Sunday, June 6, and had taken the call from the Dallas PD regarding the McCall Mercedes-Benz. He had arrived at the McCall estate at one-thirty
P.M.

“Sergeant James,” Ray Burns said, “when you arrived at the McCall residence, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“No, sir—except that the front gates were open.”

“What did you do?”

“I drove in, went up to the front door, and rang the doorbell several times. No one answered. I tried the door, but it was locked. So I walked around to the back of the house and found the back door open. I stepped inside the residence and called out, but no one answered.”

“What did you do then?”

“I commenced searching the residence, the ground floor first. Nothing was disturbed, and I found no one. I walked up the stairs to the second floor, started on the west wing. I found the body in a bedroom in the east wing.”

“What body was that?”

“White male, naked, gunshot wound to the head, lying on white carpet soaked in blood.”

“Was the body that of Clark McCall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew that from having met Clark McCall on a prior occasion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you check the body for vital signs?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“From the appearance of the body, there was no question that the victim was dead and had been for some time. I didn’t want to contaminate the evidence.”

“And was that in accordance with your police training?”

“Uh, well, no, sir. That was in accordance with O.J.’s trial. They accused those L.A. cops of contaminating the evidence. I wasn’t going there.”

“So what did you do?”

“I stepped out of the room and called headquarters, talked to the chief. He called in the Feds. The FBI.”

“Thank you, Sergeant James. No further questions.”

Scott stood and went to the podium.

“Sergeant James, why did your chief call in the FBI?”

“He figured they had jurisdiction.”

“Over a murder?”

“The victim was a federal official.”