The Color of Law (32 page)

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?”

“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 S
COTT
F
ENNEY
, E
SQ.,
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.

“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, you 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,” Señor 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 Señor 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.”