The Color of Law (25 page)

“Which means?”

“Worst case, she gets the death penalty. Best case, they convict her of second-degree murder, give her twenty years in prison. But she won’t live that long, without heroin or her daughter.”

“Read you took her in.”

Scott smiled. “Yeah, her name’s Pajamae; she’s a great kid. You got kids?”

Big Charlie nodded. “Two girls, seven and ten.”

“I bet you’re a good dad.”

“I love those two kids more than football.”

“They’re lucky then. Anyway, Pajamae was down in the projects by herself, so I went down there and got her—”

“You went into the projects? By yourself?”

“Yeah, in a Ferrari.”

Big Charlie’s head rolled back, and he let out a belly laugh. “White boy in a Ferrari down in the projects—that must’ve been a sight! I’m amazed you got out alive!”

“I had a friend, Louis. He ran interference for me, like you used to. He’s living with us now, too. Anyway, first night, Pajamae did my daughter’s hair in cornrows. Rebecca damn near fainted.”

Big Charlie smiled. “How you doing since she left?”

Scott shook his head. “I only cry at night.”

“That’s ’cause you got heart, Scotty. You cried when we won and you cried when we lost. You cried ’cause you cared, about winning, about your team, about me. You know, Scotty, I never told you, but you were my hero.”

Scott must have appeared shocked, because Charlie said, “No, man, I mean it. A hundred ninety-three yards against Texas—nobody does that! You wouldn’t quit and you wouldn’t let me quit. Twenty-three end sweeps that day, pulling my big butt around right end, then left end, then right end: I thought I was gonna die right out there on the field. But I’d look at you, getting the crap beat out of you every play but getting up and never quitting…man, you were tough.”

Scott sighed. “Life is tougher.”

“No, it ain’t. You’re forgetting your heart. Look inside yourself, it’s still there. Scotty, God gave you a gift back then, your athletic ability. But what we did out there, that was just a game. That girl’s life, that ain’t no game.” He put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Scotty, don’t you see? God’s given you a better gift than being a football star. You’ve got the ability to save that girl’s life.”

Scott looked at Big Charlie, who had given everything he had to Scott Fenney on a football field; and now, on a football field again, he had given Scott even more. At that moment, Scott realized that he needed Shawanda Jones as much as she needed him. He needed to be her hero. It was who he was. It was who he wanted to be again. It was what had been missing in his life. Scott was brought out of his thoughts when the bells at the Methodist church on the campus rang out.

“Shit, what time is it?” Scott asked.

“Noon, straight up,” Big Charlie said.

“Damn, I’m late!” Scott held his hand out, but Big Charlie bear-hugged him again. Scott said, “Thanks, my friend.”

And he ran toward the Emerald City.

United States District Court Judge Samuel Buford was sitting in his chambers behind his desk checking his watch. Twelve-thirty. No Scott Fenney. He wasn’t going to show.

Sam Buford sighed. He had thought there was hope for young A. Scott Fenney, Esq. But he had thought wrong. Fenney had the brains to be a hero, no doubt; and Buford had hoped he still had the heart. But now he saw that he didn’t. There was no hope for Scott Fenney…or for Shawanda Jones…or for the law.

At that very moment, Sam Buford decided to retire.

His time had come. He would retire and tend to his garden. Clear out those weeds, till the soil, plant carrots and squash and cabbage and tomatoes, maybe go organic; get that garden in good shape, something he hadn’t had time to do since…well, ever. Yep, time to put down the gavel and pick up the hoe.

He buzzed his secretary on the intercom and said he needed to dictate several orders. First order, postpone the trial date in
United States of America versus Shawanda Jones.
Second order, substitute counsel for Scott Fenney. But who? Herrin? The boy was a good writer, no doubt about it; but the defendant needed a hero, not a writer. He wished he were still Samuel Buford, attorney-at-law. He’d take her case. He’d be her hero. But he was Judge Samuel Buford. Soon to be a retired judge. Third order, dictate his resignation letter. As usual, Helen was prompt. In seconds the door swung open and—

Scott Fenney stood in the doorway, wearing only running shorts and drenched in sweat.

“Judge, I’m ready to be her lawyer.”

Sam Buford damn near got out of his chair and walked over to embrace the young lawyer, but that would probably violate some rule of judicial ethics, so he reined in his emotions.

“All right, son. Her life is in your hands. I hope you’re man enough to handle that responsibility.”

“I am. And, Judge, I’ll make her proud. My mother.”

Scott Fenney turned and walked out the door. Helen stepped into his place, dictation pad in hand.

“Ready, Judge?”

Buford waved her away. “Go back to your desk, Helen. I’ve got judging to tend to.” Helen turned away. “Oh, Helen, wait.” She turned back. “Get me Bob Harris on the phone.”

“Bob Harris?”

“He’s the INS regional director.” Buford leaned back and smiled. “My mama always said, one good deed deserves another.”

TWENTY-THREE

O
N
S
ATURDAY
the circus came to town.

Men and women, boys and girls, young and old, the wealthy residents of Highland Park came in droves. They parked on the side of the street, without the benefit of valets. They braved the 110-degree pressure cooker of a day and walked a block or more up the sidewalk to 4000 Beverly Drive. They had come to see something that only happened in other parts of Dallas County, in
those
neighborhoods into which they did not venture.

A yard sale.

But this was not a yard sale offering used toasters, beat-up couches, hand-me-down clothes, and an assortment of toys, baby strollers, car seats, and golf clubs. No, this yard sale boasted a walnut sideboard by Francesco Molon, a mahogany bookcase by Bevan Funnell, a pecan armoire by Guy Chaddock, a leather chair by Ralph Lauren, and a billiard table by Brunswick. It promised an assortment of sofas and tables and lamps and bedroom suites and Oriental rugs, an eclectic mix of furnishings with only two things in common: the former lady of the house once fancied them, and they were terribly expensive. It offered designer clothes, footwear, and accessories for women—dresses by Rickie Freeman and Luca Luca, handbags by Louis Vuitton and Bottega Veneta, shoes by Dior, Donna Karan, Marc Jacobs, and of course Jimmy Choo, shirts by Anne Fontaine, and silk scarves by Hermès. And there were girls’ clothes by Jacadi Paris. In all, over $500,000 worth of pricey personal possessions were on sale. And while Highland Parkers might joke about white trash and minorities engaging in curb shopping and Dumpster diving, a bargain purchase is a basic human desire that transcends race, color, creed, national origin, political affiliation, or socioeconomic position.

So they came.

They came up the brick-paved driveway and arrived at the rear motor court and backyard and four-car garage where the Fenney family possessions were on display and for sale. For cash. Pajamae told Scott you don’t take checks or credit cards at yard sales.

At dinner a week before, Boo had asked Scott what they were going to do with all of their stuff. They had enough things to fill the little house by SMU five times over. Scott said he didn’t know, but Pajamae said she did: “Have a yard sale, Mr. Fenney.” Pajamae had volunteered to run it because of her prior experience as a customer at numerous South Dallas yard sales. So the day of the event Scott was sitting at a makeshift checkout counter at the entrance to the motor court and taking cash from buyers while Pajamae and Boo made the sales.

“Two hundred,” said the old lady in the sun hat who had introduced herself as Mrs. Jacobs.

“Now, Miz Jacobs,” Pajamae said, “Miz Fenney, she paid two thousand dollars for that couch, and you want to buy it for two hundred? We priced it at seven hundred but”—she glanced around and lowered her voice—“long as you don’t tell Mr. Fenney, I’ll let you have it for six.”

“I’ll take it.”

With her Sharpie, Pajamae wrote “
SOLD
” and “
JACOBS
” on the tag and changed the price to $600. She pointed at Mr. Fenney.

“Pay the man.”

Mrs. Jacobs walked toward Mr. Fenney.

“Yoo-hoo, little colored girl!”

An old biddy was waving at Pajamae from over by the garage. Pajamae walked over. The woman was pointing at a leather chair.

“Is that a Ralph Lauren?”

“Lady, I’m not colored, I’m black. Well, I’m a quarter black, at the most. See, my mama’s daddy was white and so was my daddy. So that’d make me a quarter black and three-quarters white.” She smiled at the woman. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if we were related! And no, ma’am, that’s not Ralph Lauren, that’s a chair.”

“That’s a Ralph Lauren.”

Pajamae shrugged. “Whatever.”

“The price is six hundred fifty, but I only have hundred-dollar bills,” the lady said. “Do you have change?”

“No, ma’am, sure don’t.”

“But I want this chair!”

“So does that man over there.”

The woman turned. “What man?”

“Bald dude in the blue shorts, with the big belly, talking to the fat woman in the striped shirt? He said he was bringing his wife over to look at it.”

In fact, Pajamae had not spoken to the man.

“Don’t you let him have this chair!”

“Ma’am, first rule of yard sales is, cash rules.”

The woman again studied the chair, then the bald dude, then the chair. Finally she said, as Pajamae knew she would say, “I’ll pay seven hundred.”

Pajamae removed her Sharpie from behind her ear and wrote as she spoke: “Sold to Miz…”

“Smythe, with a
y
and an
e
. S-M-Y-T-H-E.”

“Pay the man.”

“I live just down the street. Can you deliver?”

“No, ma’am, but Louis can carry.”

Pajamae waved at Louis standing off to the side like he was trying to go unnoticed, as if a six-foot-six, 330-pound black man in Highland Park could blend in. When he arrived, she said, “Louis, this nice lady needs this chair carried to her house.”

Louis leaned down, spread his arms, grabbed the sides of the big chair, and lifted it without effort. He began walking toward Mr. Fenney like he was carrying a sack of groceries.

The lady said, “Do I have to tip him?”

“No, ma’am,” Pajamae said, “just don’t make him mad.”

Mrs. Smythe with a
y
and an
e
looked at Louis’s broad back walking away with her chair, frowned, and said, “I’ll tip him. Twenty. No, fifty.” She followed Louis over to Mr. Fenney.

Pajamae shook her head:
White people wouldn’t last a day down in the projects
. When Boo walked up, Pajamae said, “Mama would love this.”

“What?”

“Rich white people at a yard sale.”

“Do you shop at yard sales often?”

“Yard sales are our shopping malls.”

“Do you get good stuff?”

“Nothing like this. Course, we don’t look for designer labels. We just make sure the clothes don’t have blood stains, and no one’s thrown up on the furniture.”

Just then a woman wearing big sunglasses walked over holding out a handbag. “Is this a knockoff?” she asked.

Boo gave her a look. “Ma’am, my mother would rather have died than be seen with a knockoff. That’s a Louis Vuitton original, retails for seven-fifty. We’re offering that bag for two-fifty. My mother never even took it out of the house.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Pay the man.”

The woman left and Pajamae said, “Your mama has some fine stuff.”

Boo nodded. “Mother always said, any girl says money can’t buy happiness just doesn’t know where to shop. But I guess she was wrong.”

Boo pulled a black party dress off a rack. “A thousand dollars. She wore it one time to a party at the club.” She replaced the dress and picked up a red spike-heeled shoe. “Three hundred dollars.”

“For shoes?”

“Dior.”

“Dee who?”

“Christian Dior. Women kill for these shoes.”

Pajamae took the shoe and examined it. “My mama could wear these to work.”

Scott had moved Rebecca’s entire closet down to the backyard, hundreds of dresses and shoes and pants and shirts and garments of every kind and color. He had never once ventured into her huge walk-in closet so he had never realized just how many clothes she owned. He wondered now how much they had cost. Scott smiled as he accepted money from another customer buying his wife’s clothes.

Pajamae was holding up a powder blue fringed miniskirt.

Boo said, “That was Mother’s Cattle Barons’ Ball outfit.”

“Wearing this, she’d fit right in with Mama and Kiki working Harry Hines.”

Pajamae replaced the skirt and picked up red pajamas.

“Neiman Marcus,” Boo said. “One hundred thirty dollars.”

“You think Mr. Fenney would sell these to me? I can pay seven dollars.”

“You want red silk pajamas?”

“For Mama, so she doesn’t have to sleep in that jail uniform.”

“Oh.” Boo thought for a moment, then said: “A. Scott put us in charge of pricing because he doesn’t have a clue how much Mother paid for this stuff—he’d stroke out if he knew—so I’m going to mark these down to seven dollars. Pay the man.”

“The little black girl said to pay you.”

“Yep.”

Scott looked up to see Penny Birnbaum.

“Oh, uh, hi, Penny. Did you find something you like?”

“I found something I liked the first time I was here.” She smiled that smile and licked her red lips wet. “You want to go inside and see if I can find it again?”

“Well, uh, Penny, I’ve, uh, I’ve got to tend to the cash register, see?”

“You don’t need cash. I’m giving it away.”

She leaned in and her shirt gaped, revealing the top of her tanned breasts. Scott inhaled her perfume and he remembered that day in the steam shower and he became weak. He thought of feeling Penny’s naked body against his and his hands on her and hers on him and her mouth on…but he thought of Boo. She wouldn’t be very proud of her father if he gave in to his weakness.

Penny said, “I’ve come by every day and you haven’t been home. Don’t you want to see what else I can do?”

In fact, Scott had been home, but when he had seen who was standing on his front porch, he had hidden until she left.

“Oh, well, I know you’re a very talented girl and—”

“Girl with the cornrows, she said to pay you.”

Thank God
. An old lady had walked up with a handful of clothes. Penny dropped three hundred-dollar bills on the counter and sashayed down the drive with two of Rebecca’s purses, her narrow bottom in the tight shorts moving side to side so temptingly.

Bobby couldn’t afford to buy any of the stuff Scotty had for sale—not that any of the furniture would go with the East Dallas flea-market decor of his little house—and he wasn’t helping Boo and Pajamae sell the stuff because he’d probably punch out the first rich bitch who tried to negotiate him down on a price. So he was shooting pool in the garage, hoping the GQ dude checking out the pool table wouldn’t buy it because he was hoping Scotty might give it to him in lieu of some of his fees. He could put it in his combination living/dining room.

“Your wife shopping outside?” he asked Mr. GQ.

“Yeah.” Mr. GQ picked up a cue stick and said, “Wanna play?”

Bobby shrugged. “Why not.”

Bobby played pool at the Mexican bar next to his office in the strip center two, three hours a day, sometimes more. Okay, usually more. In fact, his regular clients knew to call there if they had an emergency, which is to say, if they were unexpectedly arrested by the vice squad.

Bobby racked the balls and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “For a twenty? Or is that too much?”

Mr. GQ recoiled. “Too much?” He slapped a twenty on top of Bobby’s bill and busted the rack. Not a ball fell.

Bobby chalked his cue tip. On his eighth straight stroke, he rolled the eight ball into the side pocket for the win. He reached over for the two bills when Mr. GQ said, “Double or nothing?”

Bobby smiled. The GQ dude didn’t make his money playing pool in a Mexican bar. Two games later, when his wife came looking for him, Bobby had netted $140, more than he made lawyering most days.

Boo saw a familiar face and said, “See that woman over there, the blonde?”

Boo pointed and Pajamae followed her finger. “Wearing the short shorts and heels? The real skinny girl?”

“She’s a lollipop.”

“A lollipop? You mean, like a sucker?”

“Unh-huh. See how her head looks too big for her body?”

Pajamae studied the woman. “She does look like a lollipop. That white girl needs to put some meat on her bones.”

“Mother said she eats and then she throws up.”

“’Cause she’s sick?”

“No, on purpose! So she doesn’t gain weight.”

“Boo, you pulling my leg?”

“No! She was Mother’s sorority sister. She married money.”

Pajamae frowned. “How do you marry money?”

“You look like her and you find an old man with money.”

“Oh. Kind of like Mama does, only it lasts longer.”

“Mother said she’s only thirty-three, but she’s had breast implants, a tummy tuck, a butt lift, and liposuction. Mother said the only part of her that’s real is her brain, and that’s only because they don’t do brain implants.” Boo shrugged. “That’s what Mother said, anyway.”

“Is her old man here?”

The lollipop turned and walked over to a white-haired man sitting on the love seat from the formal living room that was selling for $1,000. She sat down and he patted her skinny thigh.

“That’s him. Mother said he’s a billionaire.”

“He looks like her granddaddy. Mama would charge double to entertain a man as old as him. He must’ve paid a lot of money for his lollipop.”

Scott was taking cash faster than he could count for clothes he had never seen Rebecca wear, furniture he had never sat on, and rugs he had never stepped on. Rebecca had filled every square foot of the 7,500-square-foot residence with her stuff. Now Scott was selling six thousand square feet of her stuff. And he was enjoying it.

“Your daughter said to pay you.”

A middle-aged black woman had walked up to Scott.

“Hi, I’m Scott Fenney.”

“I’m Dolores Hudson. We just moved in down the street”—she smiled—“the first black homeowners in Highland Park history?”

“Oh, yeah, I read about you. Welcome to the neighborhood, although I won’t be here much longer.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “I’ve read about you, too.”

“Yeah, well, you should believe everything you read.”

“I don’t think so. When are you moving?”

“I close on the sale of this place Thursday, then on the new place Friday. We’ll move right after the trial.”

“Well, if the timing doesn’t work out and you need a place to stay, you and the children come stay with us. And I bet those girls haven’t had any home cooking since your wife—”

She was embarrassed. But Scott smiled and said, “My wife didn’t cook.”

“Well, I do. I’ll bring something over.”

“Thank you, Dolores.”