Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

Pajamae Jones was now part of his life-both lives. She was part of his home life, her mother part of his lawyer life. She loved her mother, and he was her mother’s lawyer. His decisions as her mother’s lawyer would determine if she had a mother much longer: if he said yes to Dan Ford, he was sending Pajamae’s mother to death row. The boundary between his dual lives had been breached, and now, like the last two teams standing at the end of a long season set to play for the championship, his two lives-Dan Ford versus Pajamae Jones-were locked in a life-and-death struggle for Scott Fenney’s soul.

I need an answer for McCall. Now.

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

Would he be the lawyer Dan Ford wanted him to be? Or the man Pajamae needed him to be? He could no longer be both. He had to choose between his two lives. He had to face it head-on, like all those times when the blocking broke down and number 22 found himself alone on a football field facing five defenders. Then, as now, he had a choice to make: step out of bounds before getting hit or charge forward and take the hits and make the extra yards. Football coaches call those moments “gut checks,” because it is in those moments when you find out what you’re made of.

Scott Fenney was facing a gut check.

The trial date was one week closer, and Scott was sitting at the small table in the small room at the federal detention center next to Bobby and across from Shawanda. She was happy, upbeat, and full of energy. Bobby was showing her photos from Carl’s background checks.

“This is Clark in his better days. He ever try to pick you up before that night?”

She shook her head. “No, sir. Course, drunk white boys all look the same on Saturday night.”

Bobby held up another photo. “The honorable senator.”

Shawanda stared at the image of Mack McCall and said, “He make my skin crawl.”

“Yeah.” Bobby pointed to a big bald man standing in the background of the same photo. “You ever see this guy?”

“No, sir…and I wouldn’t forget that face.”

Scott said, “Who’s he?”

“Delroy Lund, McCall’s bodyguard. His goon, according to Carl. Ex-DEA. Carl says he can smell a dirty cop a mile away.”

“So what’s he got to do with the case?”

Bobby shook his head. “Nothing.”

“So Carl came up empty?”

“Yeah, but he never quits looking.”

With that news, Scott decided to make one last attempt to convince his client to accept the plea offer. “Shawanda, all we have is this Hannah Steele woman. Clark raped her a year ago.” Scott turned to Bobby. “Did Carl get a photo of Hannah?”

“No, she’s real shy, wouldn’t let him. Carl said she’s like a piece of china, a real fragile girl. Said he wouldn’t bet a six-pack on her holding up under a tough cross. And Ray Burns is gonna be damn tough, he’ll try to make her look like a…” Bobby’s eyes cut to Shawanda. “He’ll explore her sexual history.”

“Yeah.” Scott turned back to his client. “Shawanda, if you made a deal, at least you wouldn’t be facing a death penalty.”

“Mr. Fenney,” she said, “if I can’t be with Pajamae, I just as soon die.”

Scott sighed and nodded at Bobby.

“Okay, Shawanda,” Bobby said, “we’ll go to trial. But you’ve got to understand, the evidence against you is substantial, more than enough to put you on death row. Our only hope is Hannah. We’ll put you on first, then we’ll put her on. She’ll corroborate…back up your testimony, which gives the jury more reason to believe you.”

“Why can’t I take one of them lie detector tests, prove I ain’t lying? I seen them on that TV show-they make the boy wanna marry the daughter take a lie detector test, ask him if he was cheating.” She laughed. “Them white boys lie every time.”

Bobby was shaking his head. “That’s not a good idea, Shawanda.” He turned to Scott. “Scotty, I was thinking about those reporters calling you, asking for TV interviews with Shawanda? Maybe we should do that, let her tell the world what happened. That’ll condition the jury pool. And after she’s told her story, you can ask that any other woman who was beaten or raped by Clark McCall come forward so Shawanda doesn’t go to jail for a crime she didn’t commit.”

“That sound good to me, Mr. Fenney,” Shawanda said.

Scott dropped his eyes and said, “I don’t know, Shawanda, that might not be the best strategy.”

Scott’s eyes were still down when Bobby said, “Shawanda, Scotty and I need to talk outside.”

Bobby stood and knocked on the door. The guard opened the door, and Scott pushed himself up out of the chair and followed Bobby into the hall. They had walked ten steps down the corridor when Bobby stopped and leaned against the wall.

“She’s doing a lot better,” Scott said.

“She’s high.”

“What?”

“She’s feeling the rush.”

“You mean heroin?”

Bobby nodded.

“How do you know?”

“Scotty, my best clients are dopers. You can see it in their eyes when they’re on it. It’s like they own the world.”

“How’d she get it in here?”

Bobby shrugged. “Guard, janitor, who knows.”

“She looked good the last time. I figured she was over it.”

Bobby shook his head. “A junkie’s never over heroin. The cravings are always there. I get them probation conditioned on treatment, they get the methadone, stay straight a couple weeks, a couple months, then go right back to it like an old lover.”

“Her life’s on the line and she can’t stop shooting up? My wife’s pissed off at me, Dan’s pissed off at me, I’m taking all this grief so she can get high? All this for a goddamned junkie?”

“Scotty, if you lived her life, you’d probably shoot up, too. You got the best of life, she got the worst. But she can still be happy when she’s high. And now the stuff on the street is so cheap, she can spend every waking minute high-until she dies.” Bobby sighed. “And she’ll die from the stuff one day.”

“We’re trying to save her from the death penalty so she can kill herself with heroin?”

“Yep, that’s exactly what we’re doing. I can see it in her eyes, Scotty, she’s a junkie for life. And hers will be a short life.” He stared at his shoes a long moment, then stood straight. “But not as short as Ray Burns wants it to be. So, you catching some heat over this?”

Scott nodded. “Big-time. Why not a polygraph?”

“My junkie clients always think they can beat the machine. Course, when they’re high, they think they’re fucking Einsteins. But they always fail. She takes it and fails, she’s history.”

“Polygraphs aren’t admissible. Burns can’t use it against her.”

“Not in court. But Ray’ll leak it to the press, it’ll be front-page news. Every juror will know she failed.”

“Maybe she’ll plead out if she fails.”

“Look, Scotty, I know this is a tough decision for you and I know you don’t want to make it, but hey, man, that’s why you make the big bucks. What do you want to do?”

“McCall’s pressuring Dan Ford to get me to drop this defense, not to drag his dead son through the mud.”

“Clark lived in the mud, Scotty. He was a bad boy.” Bobby checked his shoes again. “So Dan told you to drop it?”

“He advised me to. He wants to be the president’s lawyer. Good for business.”

“But bad for Shawanda. Is your job on the line?”

“ My job? No! Dan wouldn’t fire me. I’m like his son.”

Bobby nodded. “Three, four years ago, I represented a father who killed his son over a football game.” He chuckled softly. “Look, Scotty, I’m not a big-time lawyer like you, I don’t represent important people, I don’t make much money,…but I’ve never screwed a client. I’ve always done my best for every client, even if my best isn’t much. Clark beating her up, raping Hannah Steele, maybe more women-Scotty, that evidence might be the difference between life and death for her.”