Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

Scott stopped the Range Rover under the porte cochere. Before he had cut the engine, the valet had their doors open. Scott gave the boy a twenty, and then walked his family into the club. Boo and Pajamae skipped ahead, giggling like the little girls they were. Scott smiled at the sight. Rebecca did not.

Even when not in the best of moods, as now, Rebecca Fenney was still the most beautiful woman in Highland Park. And Scott felt proud to squire his spouse into the clubhouse at the country club, the tall handsome ex-SMU-football-star-turned-successful-lawyer escorting the gorgeous ex-SMU cheerleader wearing a pale green sundress that showed off her fabulous figure, and to see each man discretely glance at her, wishing that she and not their wrinkled dinosaur wife was going home with them tonight. Rebecca was a big part of Scott Fenney’s perfect life, albeit a severely pissed-off part tonight.

“This is a big fucking mistake,” she said through her teeth.

“Oh, you worry too much. We’re here for the fireworks. No one’s going to pay attention to a little black girl.”

“Yeah, right. The women here notice if your breasts are half an inch bigger or your butt’s half an inch smaller. How am I going to explain her to them? She’s sure as hell not a member’s kid!”

The country club opened its doors to the members’ children twice a year, for the annual Christmas Party featuring Santa Claus and for the fireworks on the Fourth of July. Otherwise, children were banned from the premises. Not that kids would find the place inviting. The average age of the members was seventy-four; Scott and Rebecca were two of the young members, “young” meaning under sixty. The decor was contemporary-for 1952; the members saw no reason to update the club, the only concession to the last fifty years being a big-screen TV in the men’s grill. There was simply no sense in trying to convince a seventy-four-year-old member that change could be good; to a man that age, change could only be bad. No change could make him young again.

So, other than those two annual events, there were no kids at the country club. Or blacks, except for the caddies and the help. Or Hispanics, or anyone else who could qualify for affirmative action. Or Jews. Even though the Bible-beating Baptist members got their medical care at Zale Lipshy Hospital and their wives shopped at Neiman Marcus, they wouldn’t let a Jew join their club. Go figure. Not that there was a written policy to that effect-you don’t write stuff like that down. You just know how it is, like you know not to give a cop the finger: there’s no law against it, but it will get you a ticket for reckless driving just the same.

The Fenneys continued into the clubhouse and down the main corridor, detained briefly by several wrinkled dinosaurs who congratulated Rebecca on her certain selection as the next chairwoman of the Cattle Barons’ Ball-“She’s a Junior League project!” Rebecca blurted out when the women noticed Pajamae-and then out the back doors and to the elevated grassy area behind the eighteenth green where the club had set up lawn chairs so the members could enjoy the club’s fireworks show.

They found four empty chairs next to a group of geriatrics who boasted a combined net worth in excess of a billion dollars. They didn’t blink an eye at Pajamae’s presence; but then, they probably couldn’t see her in the darkness. The two girls sat in front, with Scott and Rebecca behind. Scott leaned into Rebecca.

“See, nobody cares.”

They sat quietly, enjoying the summer evening and the spectacular view of the lights of downtown Dallas. The girls were huddled together and whispering when the first fireworks suddenly exploded, a giant Roman candle- boom! — and Pajamae dove out of her chair and hit the deck like a soldier under incoming attack. Scott jumped to her.

“Pajamae! What’s wrong?”

“Get down, Mr. Fenney! Get down! It’s a drive-by!”

Some nearby kids started laughing, dredging up some bad childhood memories for Scotty Fenney, the poor kid on the block-“Scotty, where’d your mommy buy your clothes, at Sears?”-and jacking up his blood pressure to pregame level. Highland Park kids enjoyed taunting their poorer peers, the most recent occasion being last year’s playoff game at Texas Stadium against a team from a working-class suburb: the Highland Park kids had chanted, “Cold cash versus white trash!” and tossed dollar bills down on their opponents from their daddies’ skyboxes. Scott glared at the snotty brats, fighting an overwhelming urge to slap the bunch of them into the ninth fairway. But smacking the heirs of the richest men in Dallas wouldn’t be good for his law business, so instead he helped Pajamae up.

“Honey, it’s okay, we don’t have drive-by shootings in Highland Park. It’s just the fireworks.”

Pajamae sat up, looked around, and said, “Oh.” Scott helped her back into her chair and sat down behind her. The geriatrics were now staring intently at Pajamae.

Rebecca sighed and said, “Well, that should make the club’s newsletter.”

Carlos Hernandez, Bobby’s favorite waiter at the Downtown Club, got busted on the Fourth of July. He went to a party in East Dallas, figuring on firing off a few fireworks. It’s illegal to even possess fireworks in the City of Dallas, but since Carlos was also in possession of cocaine and marijuana, he wasn’t thinking about the city’s fireworks ordinance-or much else, for that matter-as he stood drunk and stoned out of his mind in the middle of Grand Avenue blowing off bottle rockets at passing vehicles. When a Dallas police cruiser happened by, Carlos put a bottle rocket right in the cop’s lap. Carlos was busted for possessing two dozen bottle rockets, five strands of firecrackers, fifty Roman candles, ten grams of cocaine, and two Baggies of weed. Due to his prior experience in the federal system, he was turned over to the Feds. They charged him with possession with intent to distribute-the dope, not the fireworks. With his five priors, Carlos was looking at ten to life in a federal prison.

Which is what brought Bobby downtown four days later. Carlos’s mother had hired him to represent her son for the total sum of $500, $100 down and $100 a month until paid in full. Bobby parked six blocks down from the federal building to avoid a parking fee and to smoke another cigarette. By the time he arrived at the U.S. Attorney’s office on the third floor, he reeked of sweat and cigarette smoke. After stating his name and purpose to the receptionist, Bobby took a seat in the waiting room. He had come to negotiate a plea bargain with the Assistant U.S. Attorney handling Carlos’s prosecution. He tried not to look surprised when Ray Burns walked through the door.

“Bobby!” A big smile from Burns, as if he were happier to see Bobby Herrin this morning than any other person on the planet. “Good to see you, man.”

“Ray.”

Ray sniffed the air, then gave Bobby a funny look.

“You run over a skunk?”

“You’re the AUSA on Carlos’s case?”

“Yeah. Some coincidence, huh?” A slap on his newest best friend’s shoulder. “Come on back, Bobby, let’s talk about your main man Carlos.”

Ray’s genial disposition got Bobby’s mind to churning. It occurred to him that it was a pretty goddamn big coincidence that Ray Burns was the Assistant U.S. Attorney on this case, too. He followed Ray down a corridor and into his office. It was standard government issue, but compared to Bobby’s office, it was lavish: a leather chair, a wood desk, two guest chairs, and Sheetrock walls thick enough so you didn’t hear Jin-Jin cussing Joo-Chan for messing up a batch of Korean donuts. On the walls were Ray’s diplomas, licenses, and photos of important politicians. Ray gestured Bobby to a chair, then he sat behind his desk, leaned back, and said, “What would you think about two years for Carlos?”