The Color of Law (16 page)

“Relocation costs?”

“He said I had to leave town. He said my life would be better that way. He said I didn’t really have a choice, that if I pressed charges against Clark, his father would destroy me. He said they would bring out my prior sex life at trial, make me look like a whore.”

“What was his name, this lawyer?”

“I don’t think he told me.”

“What did he look like?”

“Like a lawyer. Old. Bald. Creepy. The way he looked at me and talked to me—my God, I’d been raped! He acted like it was just business.”

Scott ended the call and he knew. Lots of old lawyers he knew were bald and most were creepy. But he knew one such lawyer who would view paying off a rape victim as just business.

“You knew about Hannah Steele?”

“Of course.”

Scott had driven directly back to the office, parked in the underground garage, taken the elevator straight to the sixty-third floor, and hurried down the hall to Dan Ford’s office. He was now staring in disbelief at his senior partner, who was looking at Scott with a bemused expression.

“Scotty, you think this is the first time something like this has happened—college girl claiming a rich boy raped her? Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, but she wanted money, she got money, everyone’s happy.”

“She didn’t seem so happy when I talked to her.”

Dan shrugged. “Seller’s remorse.”

“And you just bribed her to drop her complaint? Threatened to destroy her by bringing out her sexual history at trial?”

“Bribed her? Threatened?”
Dan laughed. “How many girls have you paid off for Tom Dibrell? How many times have you threatened to bring up their sexual histories at trial if they didn’t settle? Do you still use my ‘every swinging dick’ line?”

When Dan had first taught him that tactic, it had seemed so clever, so goddamn lawyerly clever. As it had when Scott used it on Frank Turner, famous plaintiffs’ lawyer, negotiating a settlement with Tom’s last girl—what was her name, Nadine? Now, after talking to Hannah Steele, it didn’t seem so clever.

Scott sat down on the sofa and said weakly, “Tom’s girls didn’t claim rape. They claimed sexual harassment.”

Dan dismissed Scott’s comment with a wave of his hand.

“Semantics. Sexual harassment, rape—bottom line, someone got screwed. Scotty, my boy, you did exactly what a lawyer’s supposed to do, exactly what I taught you to do: you settled a legal dispute for your client. Just as I did.”

Even more weakly: “Doesn’t make it fair.”

Dan laughed again. “
Fair?
Fair ain’t got nothing to do with the law, son. Fair is where you go to see farm animals and ride the rides.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Hannah?”

“You didn’t need to know, Scotty. Why didn’t you tell me you hired a PI to go digging into Clark’s past?”

“Dan, I really believe Clark beat and raped Hannah.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, so do I. Of course, I believed all the others, too.”

“The
others
? There were more?”

“Seven, counting Hannah.” Dan shook his head. “That little fuckup cost his dad almost three million, just buying off girls. Plus, of course, my fee: twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars to buy off a rape victim?”

Another bemused look from his senior partner. “As I recall, you charged Dibrell fifty thousand to buy off his last girl.”

Scott’s face felt hot. “I thought it was just business.”

“It is, Scotty. It’s just business. Clark’s girls were just business, Dibrell’s girls were just business, and this is just business.”

“Not to Shawanda. It’s her life.” Scott met Dan’s gaze. “I can’t drop it, Dan.”

“Sure you can…because I’m asking you to. Scotty, are you going to say no to Mack McCall—to
me
—for a goddamn heroin junkie? For a prostitute?”

“No…for her daughter.”

“Her
daughter
?”

“Yeah. She needs her mother and her mother needs me. And I might be able to save her life.”

“Don’t start believing your own bullshit, Scott.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your campaign speech. You’re not Atticus Finch. No one is. Hell, who would want to be? He lived in a middle-class home, drove a middle-class car—what was it, a Buick?”

“Chevrolet.”

“You drive a Ferrari.” That amused Dan. “Scotty, that movie did more damage to the legal profession than Watergate. Lawyers of my generation, we went to law school to dodge the draft. But the generations that followed us didn’t have a war to worry about, so they went to law school to be some kind of goddamn hero. But that’s not what being a lawyer’s all about. And truth is, they don’t want to be another Atticus Finch any more than I do, any more than you do. He had nothing. But they—and you—and me, we want it all—the money, the house, the cars, all the things a successful lawyer can have today. And how does a lawyer become successful? By doing his job, which is making rich people richer. And we get paid very well indeed for doing our job, and not in chickens and nuts like Atticus. Our clients pay us in cash. Which is a very good thing, Scotty, ’cause you can’t buy a Ferrari with chickens and nuts.”

Dan walked over to the window and gazed out.

“When I graduated from law school, Scotty, a wise older lawyer gave me some good advice. He said, ‘Dan, every new lawyer must make a fundamental choice from which every other decision in his professional life will follow. And that choice is simple: Do you want to do good or do well? Do you want to make money or make the world a better place? Do you want to drive a Cadillac or a Chevrolet? Do you want to send your kids to private schools or public schools? Do you want to be a rich lawyer or a poor lawyer?’ He said, ‘Dan, if you want to do good, go work for legal aid and help the little people fighting their landlords and the utility companies and the police and feel good about it. But don’t have regrets twenty years later when your classmates are living in nice homes and driving new cars and taking vacations in Europe. And you have to tell your kids they can’t go to an Ivy League school because you did good.’”

Dan turned from the window.

“My son went to Princeton and my daughter went to Smith.”

Dan sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms.

“That’s the choice every lawyer makes, Scotty, and you made your choice eleven years ago when you hired on with us. You chose to do well. You stood right there, said you were tired of being the poor kid on the block, said you wanted to be a rich lawyer. Now you want to be a good guy? I don’t think so.

“Scotty, this law firm exists for one reason and only one reason: to make as much goddamn money for the partners as humanly possible. And how does this firm do that? By representing clients who can pay three and four and five hundred dollars an hour for our services. By doing what our clients want, when they want it. By never saying no to our clients. Because we know they can always take their legal fees to a law firm across the street or across the state or across the country. Because there’s always another law firm ready to take our place at the trough.”

“Dan, she’s got a little girl. I’ve got to do right by her.”

“You’ve got a little girl, too. You want to do right by her?”

He rose and came over to Scott, sat beside him, and put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. His voice was now fatherly.

“Scotty, you’ve always followed my advice, and you’ve done okay by my advice, haven’t you?”

Scott nodded. “Sure, Dan, but—”

“Then follow my advice now. C’mon, son, don’t do this. Not to yourself, not to this firm…not to me. I need an answer for McCall, Scott. Now.”

Scott buried his hot face in his hands as the battle within raged on, Dan Ford versus Pajamae Jones fighting for his soul:

I need an answer for McCall. Now.

Are the po-lice gonna kill my mama, too?

And he heard Bobby’s voice:
She needs someone strong to protect her…someone like you used to be.
Gut-check time for Scott Fenney.

“No, baby, they’re not gonna kill your mama. I’m not gonna let them.”

“What?”

Scott removed his hands from his face and turned to Dan, who was looking at him oddly. Scott realized that when his gut had answered the call, it had done so out loud. He said, “Tell McCall no.”

Dan removed his hand. “That’s not the right answer, Scott. Try again.”

“My answer is no.”

Dan stood, walked across the room, and sat behind his desk. He folded his hands on the mahogany top.

“Scotty, Mack McCall’s a U.S. senator now. He dresses nice and talks nice on those Sunday morning political shows…but underneath that politician’s demeanor, he’s still just a Texas roughneck. He grew up poor in the West Texas oil fields, started working the rigs when he was fifteen. It’s a hard life, it makes a man hard—it makes some men mean. Mack’s one of those men.”

Dan picked up a pen and studied it a moment; then he said, “Back in college, we were at a party at Martha’s sorority house. She was Mack’s fiancée then, a pretty girl and wealthy. She was Mack’s ticket, and he wasn’t about to let someone else punch it. Well, a football player got drunk and made the mistake of flirting with Martha. Mack told him to leave, but he said no. So Mack told him to step outside. Now, that boy outweighed Mack by fifty pounds, but he didn’t stand a chance. Mack beat him with brass knuckles, might’ve killed that boy if I hadn’t pulled him off. I said, ‘Mack, why the hell did you do that?’ All he said was, ‘No one takes something that belongs to me.’”

Dan shook his head in apparent disbelief at the memory.

“Scott, I learned three things about Mack McCall that night: he doesn’t take no for an answer; he doesn’t fight fair; and he’s the meanest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”

Scott let out a nervous chuckle. “So what’s he gonna do, beat me up?”

Dan sighed. “I don’t know what he’s going to do, Scotty. Forty-two years, I’ve never said no to him.” He paused, then said, “But I do know one thing, Scott: Mack McCall thinks the White House belongs to him.”

SIXTEEN

¡U
STED ME LO PROMETIO
, Señor Fenney! ¡Usted me lo prometio!”

Consuela’s brown face was wet with tears and contorted with fear as she cried out—
You promised, Señor Fenney! You promised!
Her eyes were begging for help, her round body was shaking uncontrollably, and her arms were held behind her colorful Mexican peasant dress by handcuffs. INS policy, the agents had said.

Two agents from the Immigration and Naturalization Service had arrived at the Fenney residence at exactly 6:30
A.M.
that Monday morning. Consuela had collapsed into Scott’s arms when they flashed their INS badges. The fear that had haunted her always now possessed her. All her protections had failed her: the crucifixes, the prayers, the candles, the Town of Highland Park…and Señor Fenney.

Ten minutes later, the agents were departing with Consuela de la Rosa in federal custody. Scott stood by helplessly as the agents escorted her to their waiting car. He shouted, “INS doesn’t come into Highland Park, that’s the deal! This is gonna cost you your jobs!”

One agent smiled and said, “I don’t think so, sir.”

“Half the homes in Highland Park employ Mexican maids! Why’d you come to my house?”

“Anonymous tip, sir,” the same agent said over his shoulder.

Scott gave the agent the best glare he could work up in his boxer shorts.

“Anonymous tip, my ass!”

Boo pushed past Scott and ran barefooted in her nightie down the walkway shouting, “Consuela! Consuela!”

Consuela turned back just as Boo threw her arms around the older woman’s wide waist and clutched her tightly. Consuela bent over and said, “Oh,
niña
.” Boo reached up and wiped tears from Consuela’s face. After a moment, one agent tugged at Consuela’s arm, so she kissed Boo and motioned for her to return to the house. Boo ran straight into Scott’s arms, her face frantic.

“You promised they wouldn’t come to our house! You promised! Where are they taking her? What’s gonna happen to her?”

Pajamae was now standing next to them. “That’s how they do it,” she said. “They just come and take you away.”

Finally Rebecca appeared. She punched her fists into her hips, sighed, and said, “That’s just great. Who’s gonna cook now,
me
?”

One agent put Consuela in the backseat of the dark sedan while two morning joggers stopped and gawked. Down the street, less noticeable than a soft breeze on this warm summer morning, a truckload of brown men, young and middle-aged and old, arrived for work, just as a hundred other truckloads of brown men were arriving at grand residences on quiet streets throughout the Town of Highland Park: the yardmen. Mexican men just up from Matamoros or Nuevo Laredo or Juárez, willing to toil under the cruel summer sun for the chance at a better life.

The second agent was standing at his open door, but turned back when Scott yelled at him: “You want to bust illegals?” He pointed down the street at the yardmen. “Go arrest them! You can drive all over Highland Park this morning and arrest a hundred more Mexican nationals! But they mow the lawns of the richest men in Dallas, so you’re not going to their homes, are you? I know why you came to my house! I know the asshole giving you orders!”

“It’s McCall.”

An hour later, Scott was standing in front of Dan Ford’s desk, his adrenaline still pumping hard.

Dan sighed and said, “Perhaps. Perhaps you should reconsider your decision.”

“What, this is a warning from McCall, that he can hurt me? He didn’t hurt me, he hurt a poor Mexican girl! Who didn’t do a goddamned thing to him!”

Scott headed to the door, but stopped and turned back. “Oh, Dan, when you call the senator, tell him I said to go fuck himself.”

Scott stormed past Sue and into his office where he found Bobby stretched out on the sofa.

“Mr. Fenney?” Sue was at the door, pink phone slips in hand. “Reporters. They won’t stop calling.”

“No reporters.” Sue disappeared. Scott wiped sweat from his forehead, looked over at Bobby, and said, “They took Consuela.”

Bobby sat up. “Who?”

“INS. They showed up this morning, anonymous tip.”

“From McCall.”

Scott slumped. “Jesus, Bobby, her face. She was so scared.”

His anger rose again, and he desperately needed to hit something, so he kicked the trash basket across the room.

“That son of a bitch doesn’t know who he’s messing with!” He pointed a finger at the blowup of himself on the wall. “I got a hundred and ninety-three yards against Texas!”

“Football’s got rules, Scotty. Game McCall plays, ain’t no rules.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Bobby climbed up from the sofa and said, “I’ll be in the library if you need me—briefs for Shawanda. Lunch?”

Scott nodded. Bobby turned to leave but stopped dead in his tracks when Karen Douglas appeared in the door. They looked at each other like two preteens, then Karen broke eye contact and entered the office. Bobby left and Karen said to Scott, “He’s cute.”

“Yeah, that’s what I always tell him.”

Scott sat down hard in his chair and tried to get his breathing under control.

“You okay?” Karen asked.

“No.” After several deep breaths: “What’s up?”

“We’re ready to file the Dibrell zoning lawsuit.” Sid walked in as Karen continued: “But Richard down in litigation says Dallas County state court isn’t a favorable venue for this type of action. He says the judges are all Republicans and aren’t inclined to overrule a city’s zoning decisions.”

Sid winked at Scott and said, “Karen, what’s the single most important fact a lawyer needs to know before going into court, the one fact that will determine whether you win or lose?”

Karen seemed confused. Finally, she shrugged and said, “Which party was in the right and which was in the wrong?”

Sid chuckled. “Not exactly. This wasn’t on the bar exam, Karen, but the single most important fact to know is whether the other lawyer contributed more money to the judge’s last campaign than we did. Right, Scott?”

Scott nodded at Sid, but his thoughts were on Consuela…and the look on her face…as if Señor Fenney had betrayed her.

Sid said, “Only problem is, Scott, cases are assigned randomly. How can we be sure of getting one of our judges?”

Scott’s mind, though clouded with Consuela, remained ever aggressive and creative.

“Karen, tell Richard to file the lawsuit six times back to back. The six suits will be assigned to six different judges. We’ll pick the judge we gave the most money to, proceed with that suit, and nonsuit the others.”

Sid was duly impressed. Karen had that same freshman-coed-watching-her-first-porn-flick expression. Scott thought of his maid…he had betrayed her. He yelled out to his secretary:

“Sue, get me Rudy Gutierrez’s number! He’s an immigration lawyer!”

Karen asked, “Scott, is that ethical? Filing the same suit six times?”

“It’s a code of legal ethics, Karen, not the Bible.”

“Where’s the goddamn coffee?”

In the commercial-style kitchen at 4000 Beverly Drive in Highland Park, Rebecca Fenney was opening and slamming cabinet doors, trying to find the coffee beans and the grinder so she could make her own coffee for the first time in three years, angry and agitated because her anxiety and fear had increased exponentially. Had her husband fucked up a good thing? Was losing Consuela just the beginning—the beginning of the end? The arrest of the Fenney maid would be the main topic at every luncheon of Highland Park ladies this Monday. What would they think of Rebecca Fenney now? How would it affect her chances to chair the Cattle Barons’ Ball?

“What’s gonna happen to Consuela, Mother?”

Sitting at the table were the two little girls.

“I don’t know, Boo. Eat some breakfast.”

Pajamae jumped up. “I can cook, Mrs. Fenney. I cook for Mama all the time, eggs, bacon, biscuits, grits—”

“Skip the grits.” Rebecca tried another cabinet. “Where’s the coffee?”

Pajamae was now pulling out frying pans and utensils and dragging a chair to the range. She climbed up.

“Where-as. This is a cool stove.”

Rebecca gave up on coffee. “I’ll be downstairs on the Stairmaster. You girls try not to start a fire. We’ve got to get another maid. Soon.”

“INS came to your home in Highland Park? Jesus, Scott, who’d you piss off?”

Scott had called Rudy Gutierrez, the immigration lawyer.

“Her name is Consuela de la Rosa. Get her out today.”

“No way, Scott. INS won’t let go of her.”

“Why not? She’s just a maid.”

“Scott, since 9/11 every Mexican here illegally is an international terrorist as far as INS is concerned. They play hardball. They were pricks before—now they’re goddamned pricks.”

“I’ll pay whatever it takes, Rudy, just get her out.”

“Scott, it’d be cheaper not to fight deportation. Let INS bus her across the border, then she can cross back over and work her way back up here.”

“Consuela can’t handle that.”

“Okay, but it ain’t gonna be cheap.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five…thousand.”

“I’ll send you a check today. You find her today, Rudy, tell her everything is gonna be okay, that we’re her family and she’ll be back with us…and Rudy, tell her I’m sorry.”

Bobby had returned from the library shortly before noon. They were now taking the elevator upstairs to the Downtown Club. Scott was still aching to punch something. Or someone. He straightened his tie in the mirrored wall and said, “Bobby, we’re gonna show the world what kind of boy Clark McCall was.”

“For Shawanda or because McCall got your maid arrested?”

Scott stared at himself in the mirror a moment.

“I don’t know.”

“Let me know when you do.”

The elevator doors opened and Scott led the way down the corridor to the maître d’s station.

“Two, Roberto.”

Roberto stood frozen, his brown eyes wide, as if the Virgin Mary herself stood before him. Scott expected him to make the sign of the cross.

“Roberto?”

“Uh, Mr. Fenney, I, uh, I, uh…”

“What, Roberto? We want lunch.”

“Mr. Fenney, I no can do.”

Roberto was suddenly no longer the suave maître d’ of the Downtown Club; he was a
no habla inglés
immigrant just up from the border.

“You no can do
what
?”

“Give you seat.”

“Why not?”

Roberto’s forehead shone with a layer of sweat.

“You no member.”

“What the hell you mean I’m not a member?”

“Mr. Fenney, is no more.”

“You’re telling me I’m not a member anymore?”

Roberto nodded.
“Sí.”

“Get Stewart.”

Roberto hurried off in search of the club’s manager. Scott turned and nodded at the three men waiting behind him to be seated. In less than a minute, Stewart appeared, trailed by Roberto—and the club’s security guard.

“What the hell’s going on, Stewart?”

Stewart regarded Scott with the same disdain he would a homeless person seeking a handout at the swanky Downtown Club.

“Mr. Fenney, your membership has been revoked by action of the board of directors, effective immediately. I must ask you to leave the premises.” He gestured at the members in line behind Scott. “Roberto, seat these gentlemen.”

The three men followed Roberto into the dining room, but not before giving Scott a curious glance and whispering among themselves, “That’s Scott Fenney, Tom Dibrell’s lawyer.”

“You’re joking?”

“No, Mr. Fenney.”

Stewart held out an envelope. Scott snatched it, opened it, and removed a letter from the board of directors of the Downtown Club informing A. Scott Fenney, Esq., that his membership had been terminated. Scott’s blood pressure ratcheted up until the veins in his forehead felt like they would blow any second.

“Please leave, Mr. Fenney. Or Darrell will escort you out.”

Darrell, the security guard, took a step toward Scott. Darrell was young, early twenties, maybe two hundred pounds, wearing a clip-on tie and a brown polyester sports coat the sleeves of which were straining against his thick arms. Sporting a flattop, he had a square jaw and the protruding brow of a weight lifter fashioned from steroids. Scott had played football with what God gave him; he hadn’t bought it in a goddamned drugstore. But he had played against many such freaks. Problem with drugstore muscles, though, was they weren’t real, they weren’t strong, they weren’t powerful. They just looked good. At least that was his theory. Scott Fenney was still 185 pounds of natural muscle and he could still kick Darrell’s ass up and down the seventy floors of this skyscraper. He now took a step toward Darrell, so close he could smell Darrell’s foul breath. Scott said through clenched teeth: “I wouldn’t recommend trying.”

Scott wadded up the letter and tossed it in Stewart’s face, then he turned and walked away. They were ten paces down the corridor when he heard Bobby’s voice: “Scotty.”

Scott stopped and turned back. Bobby was pointing to a portrait on the wall, one of the club’s founders: Mack McCall.

If Mack McCall had appeared before him at that moment, Scott Fenney might well have found himself sleeping in a cell like Shawanda Jones that night. He had never before been this mad at another human being, not even on a football field. He knew he couldn’t return to the office in that state, so he and Bobby took the skywalk across to the athletic club.

“They got a juice bar,” Scott said.

They were met at the front desk not by the trim little blonde Scott normally saw after work but by Han, a hulking bodybuilder who made Darrell look like a runt. Han greeted Scott like a stranger.

“Please wait here, Mr. Fenney.”

“Oh, shit,” Bobby said. “Déjà vu all over again.”

Han returned with a cheap little gym bag the club gave to guests. He held it out to Scott.

“What’s this?”

“The contents of your locker.”

“Why?”

“Your membership is terminated.”

“As of when?”

“This morning.”