Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

“Didn’t Sue pay our club dues this month?”

Scott raised his eyes to her. He nodded blankly.

“Ernie said you’re no longer a member.”

His hand slowly came up and fell on a piece of paper on the table. She recognized the club’s letterhead. He pushed it her way. She picked it up and read:

Dear Mr. Fenney:

The Membership Committee believes that your continued presence at the club will detract from the collegial social atmosphere of the membership. Therefore your membership has been revoked effective this date. Please do not return to the premises. Your personal belongings will be delivered to your residence, along with your final bill.

“It’s McCall,” he said. “He got me kicked out of the Downtown Club and the athletic club, too. He’s trying to pressure me to drop our defense.”

“Goddamnit, Scott, I told you!” Her arm dropped and the letter floated to the floor. The Scott Fenney ride was coming to an end. The only question now was whether the end would be a soft landing or a fiery crash.

The girls were sitting up in Boo’s bed when Scott picked up the book and sat down in the chair next to the bed. All the strength had drained out of his body. In one day, he had lost his maid and his memberships at the dining club, the athletic club, and the country club. Just the idea of it, that Mack McCall possessed that kind of power, that he could sit in Washington and pull strings in Dallas, make a few phone calls and affect Scott’s perfect life, made Scott realize his relative place in the world. Maybe 193 yards against Texas didn’t make Scott Fenney so special after all.

“You broke your promise,” Boo said, her voice stern, “and now Consuela’s gone.”

Scott had suffered all manner of physical pain, but none compared to the pain he felt now for letting his daughter down.

Scott removed his glasses. “I’m sorry, Boo.”

“Get her back.”

“I’m trying to.” Scott replaced his glasses and opened the book. “Where were we, the Thirteenth Amendment?”

Boo said, “We want to talk about something else.”

Scott shut the book. “Okay. What?”

“What’s a will?”

“A will is a legal declaration evidencing a testamentary intent to dispose of one’s property upon one’s death.”

Boo had a blank expression. “In English,” she said. Pajamae was nodding.

“A will says who gets your stuff when you die.”

The girls glanced at each other and nodded. Boo said, “So who gets your stuff if you die?”

“Your mother.”

“Who gets her stuff if she dies?”

“Me.”

“Who gets your and Mother’s stuff if you both die?”

“You.”

“Who gets me?”

“Oh.”

“My grandparents are dead, I don’t have any uncles or aunts or older brothers or sisters…and now I don’t even have Consuela.”

“Well, first of all, Boo, your mother and I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, so this is all hypothetical.”

“All what?”

“Hypothetical. You know, what if. But don’t worry, your mother and I are going to be here to take care of you.”

Pajamae said, “Mama says all my kin are dead or in prison.”

“So what if?” Boo said.

“What if what?”

“What if you and Mother die?”

“I don’t know, Boo. I guess I haven’t thought much about it.”

Boo held out a handful of one-dollar bills and assorted coins. “We want to hire you as our lawyer, but we’ve only got thirteen dollars between us, so you’ll have to work really fast.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“Write us a will that says if Pajamae’s mother dies, we get her and she gets to live with us, and if you and Mother die, her mother gets me and I get to live with them.”

“In the projects?” Scott said before he could catch himself.

“ No. I’ll get this house, we’ll live here.”

Both girls were nodding now. And Scott smiled for the first time that day, at the image of Shawanda Jones as the woman of the house at 4000 Beverly Drive in the heart of Highland Park.

McCall’s an asshole.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

It was nine the next morning, and Scott was slumped on the sofa in Dan Ford’s office. His senior partner was sitting behind his desk, his hands folded, like a priest taking a confession.

“But he’s rich and powerful, Scott, which makes him a very dangerous asshole.”

“He’s your friend.”

“I didn’t say he was my friend. Fact is, I wouldn’t turn my back on the bastard. But he’s going to be the next president, and we want him to be this firm’s friend.”

“Dan, you tell him I can live without the Downtown Club and the athletic club and the country club-taking my memberships…okay, fine, that’s playing hardball. But taking Consuela, hurting a poor Mexican girl who never hurt a soul in her life…that ain’t hardball, Dan, that’s just plain fucking mean. You tell him he’s a mean son of a bitch to do that.” Scott had awakened that morning itching for a fight. “Matter of fact, why don’t you give me McCall’s number, I’ll tell him myself.”

Dan smiled. “I don’t think so, Scotty.”

“You know, Dan, I was never carried off the field. I took the best shot any team could give me, and I always got up.”

Dan nodded. “You were tough.”

“I’m still tough.” Scott tapped his index finger to the side of his head. “Up here. That’s where real toughness is, in your head. Everyone hurts physically, but the guys who are mentally tough get up off the ground and keep playing. McCall gave me his best shot, and I got up. You tell him that. I’m still playing-and I’m gonna play harder now. You tell him that, too.”

Scott stood and walked to the door but stopped when Dan said, “Scotty?”

“Yeah?”

“How do you know that’s his best shot?”

Five minutes later, Mack McCall was saying to Dan, “The boy don’t break easy.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Dan said.

“Well, he will…or everyone in Dallas is gonna know his wife is screwing the assistant pro at the club.”

“ Trey? Jesus, that boy’s cutting a wide swath through the wives out there. He ought to be paying us. How’d you find out?”

“Delroy’s been snooping.”

“Damn, Mack, hold off on that, see if Scott gets on board. His wife cheating on him…that’s gonna be tough on him.”

“You sound like you care about Fenney.”

“He’s the best young lawyer I’ve ever met…he’s like a son to me.”

“Dan, a son can be a dangerous thing.” The morning mail was waiting for Scott when he returned to his office. But instead of billing a thousand dollars for reading his mail, today’s mail was going to cost him many times that sum: one letter was from the Internal Revenue Service, demanding $75,000 for back nanny taxes, penalties, and interest in the matter of Consuela de la Rosa. And Scott knew Dan’s words had been a warning: Mack McCall was not yet through with Scott Fenney.

Scott sat at his desk and assessed his financial condition. He had $100,000 cash, more or less-actually, $25,000 less since he had sent a check over to Rudy Gutierrez yesterday-in his savings account, which was generating almost nothing in interest income, and another $200,000 in his 401(k) account, all in tech stocks, all under water, all worth half what he paid for them.

He owed $2.8 million on the house, $175,000 on the Ferrari, and another $150,000 on the Mercedes and Range Rover, and $25,000 on credit cards. Three million one hundred fifty thousand in debt. The cars were probably at breakeven, debt to value, and the house was worth maybe a million over the debt, although the high-end housing market in Dallas had slowed recently.