Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

Boo sat up in the lounge chair by the pool in the backyard. She was wearing a white bathing suit and sunglasses and drinking pink punch Consuela had made. Pajamae was lying facedown in the adjacent lounge chair, wearing one of Boo’s many bathing suits. They were taking turns rubbing sunscreen onto each other’s back. It was Boo’s turn. She lifted Pajamae’s long braids and squirted a line of sunscreen onto her back.

A normal summer afternoon for Boo was spent home alone, reading a book. A. Scott was downtown, Mother was at the country club, and most of the kids her age were at their summer homes or at camp or in Europe. Not that Barbara Boo Fenney had many friends here in the Bubble. Most girls her age wanted to brag about their things. She didn’t. She was different. She thought different thoughts and she wore different clothes and she wanted different things. The other girls said she was weird and called her a lesbo because she didn’t dress like a girl. So she usually played by herself or swam under Consuela’s watchful eye. But today she had a new friend. Who was different, too.

“I love your hair,” Boo said. She began rubbing the white lotion into Pajamae’s brown skin. “Do black people need sun-screen?”

After a moment, Pajamae said, “I don’t know. But Mama always makes me put it on.”

“When will she get out of jail?”

“End of summer, if Mr. Fenney gets her out.”

“If she didn’t do it, she’ll get out.”

“Don’t work that way for us.”

“Us who?”

“Black people.”

“A. Scott’s a great lawyer. He’ll get your mother out.”

“I hope so. ’Cause my mama, she wouldn’t do well in prison.”

Boo rubbed until the lotion disappeared into Pajamae’s skin, then said, “Why do you talk like we do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, whereas-”

“Where what?”

“Whereas.”

“Where ass?”

“No, where as. A. Scott’s always saying whereas this and whereas that…it’s lawyer talk. Lawyers have lots of words like that.”

Pajamae was grinning. “Whereas. I like that. Where- as!”

“You don’t talk like black people on TV talk, like…”

“Black English, Mama calls it, like everyone in the projects talks. She says I’m not allowed to talk like that. She says I have to use correct English.”

Boo lifted one of Pajamae’s braids and let it slide through her fingers. She sat up with a start.

“Come on, I’ve got a great idea!”

Driving home, Scott was wondering why he wasn’t feeling more insulted by Mack McCall’s arrogant assumption that he could simply dictate to A. Scott Fenney, Esq., the terms of his representation of a client. The legal code of ethics to which all lawyers swear allegiance (at least long enough to obtain a license to practice law) clearly states (in theory) that a lawyer shall not be influenced by any outside interests in the zealous representation of his client. Of course, in practice the code of ethics is viewed by most lawyers in the same way career criminals view the penal code: more in the nature of suggestions than actual rules governing one’s professional conduct.

On the other hand, Scott was also wondering why he hadn’t readily agreed to McCall’s demands as requested by his senior partner. Scott had never gone against Dan Ford’s wishes-that would be like going against his own father. He had rubber-stamped all of Dan’s decisions for the firm, whether firing a partner or dumping a client or making campaign contributions to friendly judges up for reelection, because Dan was always acting in the best interests of Ford Stevens and thus in Scott’s best interests. Why had he hesitated this time? For the first time?

Back to the first hand: the fact that United States Senator Mack McCall just assumed Scott Fenney would drop his client’s best defense to a murder charge simply because McCall told him to, that should have brought Scott’s blood to a boil. Who the hell does he think he is? Back in college, if someone had even dared suggest that Scott Fenney, star halfback, might throw a game, he would have gotten pissed off and punched the son of a bitch in the mouth! Just for thinking he possessed so little integrity as to even entertain the idea of throwing a football game! So why wasn’t A. Scott Fenney, Esq., similarly pissed off when asked to throw a trial? Why was he even entertaining the idea? Had he engaged in so much aggressive and creative lawyering that he no longer recognized the difference between making a deal and compromising his integrity? Had he become such a good lawyer that he had no integrity left to compromise?

He was wrestling with these thoughts as he drove past the walled estates along Preston Road that backed up to Turtle Creek, the grand residences of real-estate tycoon Trammell Crow ($13.3 million appraised value), and Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones ($14.1 million), and Tom Dibrell ($18 million), and Mack McCall ($25 million)-and he realized that it had never before registered with him that McCall and his best client owned adjoining estates. He slowed as he passed the entrance to the McCall estate and was thinking back to the night of the murder, Clark and Shawanda driving in through those gates, only minutes remaining in Clark McCall’s life, when his cell phone rang. He answered.

“Scott Fenney.”

“Mr. Fenney, this is Louis.”

“Louis…”

“From the projects.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, Louis.”

“Well, Mr. Fenney, Pajamae, she ain’t come back yet, and I be getting kinda worried…She still with you?”

“Oh, Louis, I’m sorry, I should’ve had my secretary call you. Pajamae’s going to stay with us until the trial’s over.”

“Us who?”

“Me. My family.”

“You taking Pajamae in?”

“Well, yeah, you know, until this is over. We were down at the courthouse with Shawanda this morning and I didn’t want to drive-” Scott decided not to mention that he didn’t want to return to Louis’s part of town-“and, well, I’ve got a daughter her age, and we’ve got four bedrooms sitting empty, and I just thought it might be better that way. Shawanda thought so, too.”

“What about her stuff, clothes and all?”

“Oh, she can wear my daughter’s clothes. They’re about the same size and, hell, my daughter never wears half the clothes my wife buys her anyway.”

“You want, I can bring her stuff to you.”

“To Highland Park?”

The phone was silent. Scott thought again he might have angered Louis. But he was wrong again.

“Louis?”

“Projects ain’t no place for a little girl living alone, Mr. Fenney. Tell her I said hey. And if you need any help down my way, you let me know.”

“Okay, thanks, Louis.”

“Oh, and Mr. Fenney…”

“Yeah?”

“I guess I wouldn’t expect something like that from a white man. You a good man, Mr. Fenney.”

Scott disconnected and wondered if Louis was right.

Boo bounced down the stairs to the kitchen and over to the table, followed by Pajamae. Mother took one look at Boo, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Young lady, what have you done to your hair?”

Boo’s long red hair was now braided tight to her scalp with long braids hanging to her shoulders.

“Cornrows. Pajamae did it. Pretty cool, huh?”

Mother turned to A. Scott and said, “Well, Scott?”

He shrugged and said, “She looks like Bo Derek.”

“Bo Derek?”

“Yeah, from that movie.”

Mother threw her hands up. “Barbara Boo Fenney, Highland Park debutantes don’t wear their hair in cornrows!”

“Then it’s not a problem, Mother, because I’m not gonna be a deb.”

Mother sighed heavily, restraining her anger, and said, “Pajamae, I hope you don’t have any tattoos.”