Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

“Who’s him, Mr. Fenney?” she said in a weak voice, gesturing at Bobby.

“Bobby Herrin, your lawyer.”

“Thought you my lawyer?”

“Shawanda, I represent corporations, not criminals…I mean, people charged with crimes. I hired you a real criminal defense attorney.”

“All rise!”

The bailiff’s voice boomed out and everyone in the courtroom stood as Judge Samuel Buford entered from a door behind the bench. He was the very image of a federal judge: the white hair, the patrician face, the black reading glasses, and the black robe. He sat behind the bench, which was elevated, as if to emphasize the supreme power of the law. To look him in the eye Scott had to angle his head up about twenty degrees.

“Be seated,” the judge said. He shuffled through papers on his desk and glanced up over his glasses, first at Ray Burns, then at Scott and Shawanda and Bobby. Finally he said, “ United States of America versus Shawanda Jones. Detention hearing.”

He looked at Shawanda again.

“Ms. Jones, are you okay?”

He was a father asking his young daughter if she was hurt after falling off her bicycle. Shawanda nodded and the judge then turned to the lawyers.

“Gentlemen, please make your appearances.”

Burns said, “Ray Burns, Assistant U.S. Attorney, for the government.”

Then Scott said, “A. Scott Fenney, Ford Stevens, for the defendant. If I may, Your Honor, my firm has retained Robert Herrin, Esquire, to assume representation of the defendant. Mr. Herrin is a well-respected criminal defense attorney in Dallas. He possesses much more experience than I in criminal matters and will be able to provide the defendant a more competent defense. With the court’s permission, I ask to withdraw from representation of the defendant and for Mr. Herrin to be substituted in my place.”

The judge was eyeing Scott over his reading glasses; a wry smile crossed his face.

“Didn’t really want to be another Atticus Finch after all, huh, Mr. Fenney?”

Scott knew better than to respond. The judge’s smile dissolved into a look of disappointment that, for some odd reason, bothered Scott. The judge sighed and dropped his eyes. He started writing on what Scott knew was the case docket, officially substituting Robert Herrin, Esq., as counsel for the defendant in place of A. Scott Fenney, Esq. Scott felt like a kid about to get out of detention hall.

The judge said, “Well, since it’s okay with Ms. Jones…”

Shawanda Jones rubbed her face but her skin felt numb. She hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours; the cravings kept her awake all day and all night. She had never been without heroin for this long since she had gotten hooked, and it was killing her. Her mind was fuzzy and she couldn’t get her thoughts straight. She had a blinding headache that wouldn’t quit. She ached all over. Every muscle and bone in her body was throbbing with pain, and her skin was covered with goose bumps from the chills that swept over her regularly.

Her eyes were dry and gritty as she raised them to the white man standing to her right, this Robert Herrin Esquire. He was short, had a belly on him, and must have had bad acne as a boy because his face was pockmarked. His brown hair clearly hadn’t been washed that morning. He was wearing the cheapest suit she had ever seen on a white lawyer-the damn thing shined under the fluorescent lights! His white shirt had yellowed a shade and its button-down collar was missing one of its buttons. His tie screamed Sale at JCPenney! No doubt, she made more money hooking than he did lawyering.

She turned to the white man to her left, Mr. Fenney. Tall and blond and handsome, wearing a dark pin-striped suit that hung like a silk dress over his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt with French cuffs, a maroon silk tie, and the overall appearance of a white-boy version of the baddest pimp in the projects, he had a look that said, I’m a stud.

A stud or a dud?

Shawanda was twenty-four years old. She had dropped out of school at age fifteen when she got pregnant. She had only nine years of formal education. But she wasn’t stupid. And her prior experiences with the American legal system had taught her an important lesson, one she wasn’t ever going to forget: rich lawyer means good lawyer; poor lawyer means bad lawyer. She looked up at the judge and said, “It ain’t okay!”

Scott’s heart froze as the words from the black woman standing next to him hit his brain. The judge’s head shot up. His eyes locked on Shawanda Jones. Scott turned and stared down at her, stifling the urge to strangle this client who refused to go away quietly.

“What?” the judge asked.

“It ain’t okay with me,” Shawanda said. She pointed a trembling black finger at Scott. “Judge, I’m innocent and I want Mr. Fenney be my lawyer.”

The judge yanked his reading glasses off his face and cocked his head at Scott.

“Mr. Fenney, did you not discuss this with your client prior to asking this court to substitute counsel?”

Scott cleared his throat. “Uh, no, sir.”

“Well, maybe you should have.” The judge returned to Shawanda. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want Mr. Fenney as your lawyer?”

“Judge, I believe in him. I feel confidence in him. I know he can prove me innocent.”

The judge again turned to Scott.

“Mr. Fenney, it’s the defendant’s right to counsel, so it’s her decision.”

“Your Honor, may I have a moment with Ms. Jones?”

The judge gave him a brief wave of the hand.

Scott stepped between Shawanda and the judge, leaned down to her, and whispered through clenched teeth: “Look, goddamnit, my firm is hiring a lawyer for you. I’ve got better things to do than take you to trial. I’m not gonna be your lawyer. Now you tell the judge it’s okay for Bobby to represent you.”

Scott straightened up and faced the judge. The judge held his hands up.

“Well, Ms. Jones?”

Shawanda again turned to Robert Herrin- Dud! — then to A. Scott Fenney- Stud! She pointed at Mr. Fenney and said, “I want him.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Dan Ford was upset now. “A goddamn hooker holding this firm hostage!”

Scott had just come from the courthouse with the bad news. “Can we appeal the appointment?” Scott asked.

“Hell, no! Even if we could, we wouldn’t. That’d piss off Buford big-time. We would never be able to set foot in his court again.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

Dan stared at his protege, the finest young lawyer he’d come across in thirty-five years. The boy was a natural: smart, shrewd, articulate, and possessed of the intestinal fortitude to bill a client until he cried uncle. He looked upon Scott as his son.

“Keep Herrin on the case, let him do all the heavy lifting, write all briefs and motions, make all pretrial appearances-that’ll keep the firm’s name out of the papers and off TV. And no goddamn interviews, make sure Herrin knows that! You”-a finger pointed at Scott-“you work for our paying clients.”

Dan checked his watch and walked over to the coatrack. “Keep me posted. I don’t want any surprises, Scott.”

Scott departed, and Dan slipped into his coat; he was wearing a black suit today. He had to go to a funeral.

Most residents of Highland Park who knew Clark McCall always assumed he would die young. He was wild and reckless, to the degree only a child of enormous wealth could afford to be. A son of the middle class could not afford to squander his chances at admission to a top college and then law or medical school. But for Clark McCall, those considerations were of no concern: his father possessed a net worth in excess of $800 million.

Dan Ford was sitting in the sanctuary of the Highland Park United Methodist Church situated at the southern end of the SMU campus, waiting for Clark McCall’s funeral service to begin. He had known Clark all the boy’s life because he had known Clark’s father for forty-two years. Dan had met Mack their freshman year at SMU when they had pledged the same fraternity.