Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

“But as they say, no good deed goes unpunished.”

“So I’ve learned. I expected some adverse publicity, perhaps a few clients who didn’t like what I was doing, but I did not expect Senator McCall to try to destroy me.”

“And what has Senator McCall done?”

“First he called my senior partner and asked him to get me to exclude any evidence at trial about Clark’s past criminal conduct. He said he did not want his son dragged through the mud. But Clark McCall lived in the mud.”

“You refused to drop that evidence?”

“Absolutely. To do so would have been unethical conduct by a lawyer and unfair to Shawanda. She’s entitled to the very best defense I can muster. And that’s exactly what she will get.”

“What did the senator do next?”

“He got the U.S. Attorney in Dallas to offer a plea deal, twenty years for Shawanda if we kept quiet about Clark’s past. Of course, we rejected the offer. My client is innocent.”

“Then what happened?”

“INS agents showed up at my house and arrested my maid, a Mexican national. Consuela-that’s her name-had been with us for three years. She’s part of our family.”

Fenney’s eyes looked wet.

“She didn’t have a green card?”

“No.”

“She was here in America illegally?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew that?”

“Look, we can debate the merits of the immigration laws, but the point is that Senator McCall used his political power in Washington to have my maid in Dallas arrested.”

“To pressure you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he succeed?”

“No. I will never be pressured to act to the detriment of my client. Senator McCall only hurt a poor Mexican girl.”

“Not a smart political move given the percentage of Hispanic voters in America. What happened next?”

“Senator McCall then got me kicked out of my dining club, my athletic club, and my country club.”

The reporter offered a shocked expression.

“The man who wants to be president stooped that low?”

“Yes, he did.”

“So is that all?”

“No, unfortunately, that’s not all. Since I still refused to accede to his demands, Senator McCall used his power to get the bank to call the notes on my cars and my home. I now have ten days to pay off the car notes and thirty days to pay off the house note, or I’ll lose everything.”

“My God, you’re not serious!”

“I’m afraid I am.”

“I hesitate to ask, but is there more?”

“Yes. Since all of that did not succeed, McCall called in some favors with a client of mine, Tom Dibrell, a real-estate developer in Dallas and-”

“What kind of favors?”

“Well, Tom told me that ten, twelve years ago, McCall threatened to hold up legislation desired by the lender holding the mortgage on his downtown office building unless the lender held off foreclosure. And that McCall used his influence to swing several federal construction projects to Tom.”

“And now he asked Mr. Dibrell for a favor in return?”

“Yes.”

“And what was that favor?”

“To fire me as his lawyer.”

“And did he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And how does that hurt you?”

“Tom was my biggest client. He paid my firm three million dollars in fees each year.”

“That’s a lot of money. So when Mr. Dibrell fired you, your professional career was harmed in a very significant way.”

“Yes, it was. But I’m here to tell Senator McCall, on national TV, that despite his efforts to destroy me, I will defend Ms. Jones to the best of my ability. And evidence about his son’s racism and rapes will be introduced at trial. Shawanda Jones will have a competent defense. I’ll make sure of that.”

The phone rang just as the program went to commercial again. Mack picked up the phone and answered. It was Delroy calling from Dallas. “You watching this?” Delroy asked.

“Yeah.”

“You still just want to control him?”

“Now I want to hurt him. Leak it about his wife and the golf pro.”

“Okay, but we can hurt him worse than that…and control him.”

“You mean…” Mack decided not to complete his thought with Jean present. But he didn’t need to with Delroy.

“Yeah, I mean. It worked with a Mexican drug lord. It’ll damn sure work with a lawyer.”

“I don’t know, Delroy, that sort of thing…”

Mack turned back to the TV. The reporter was speaking directly into the camera: “What kind of man would try to destroy a lawyer for doing his professional duty? For defending a black woman accused of murdering a white man? Apparently, Senator Mack McCall is that kind of man.”

Mack’s blood pressure and anger spiked again. He said into the phone to Delroy: “Do it.”

He could almost see Delroy grinning when he hung up.

On the TV the reporter turned to Fenney: “Mr. Fenney, thank you for coming on tonight so the American people can know what kind of man Senator McCall is before they decide to elect him president. You’re a brave man. But Senator McCall is a rich and powerful man. Aren’t you afraid he’ll hurt you again?”

Fenney said, “McCall can’t hurt me anymore.”

Mack McCall walked into the closet, returned with a Smith amp; Wesson. 357 magnum pistol he kept up on the shelf, pointed it at the image of A. Scott Fenney on the television, and pulled the trigger.

“The hell I can’t.”

After leaving the federal building, Scott drove the Ferrari through the dark and deserted downtown. It was eerily quiet. And it reminded him of his senior season, after his last game, when he walked from the belly of the stadium onto the dark and deserted field, stood on the 50-yard line, and just looked around, knowing it was over.

Rebecca was in the kitchen, staring at the TV, when he entered the house. The late news was on; a reporter was saying, “A flash poll taken immediately after the Shawanda Jones interview shows Senator McCall’s poll numbers plummeting. He’s fallen to single digits among likely voters, from first place to last, perhaps spelling the end to his White House ambitions.”

Scott said, “I showed that son of a bitch.”

Rebecca turned from the television; on her face was an expression of utter devastation.

“You just threw our lives away for a whore.”

The next morning, Scott Fenney felt like he had the morning after he had run for 193 yards against Texas: he hurt less because his opponent hurt more. Sure, he had lost his rich client, all his cash, his dining, athletic, and country club memberships, and his Mexican maid, and he would soon lose his Ferrari and his mansion. But Mack McCall had lost the White House. Scott Fenney had beaten a Texas roughneck at his own game.

How about those brass knuckles, McCall?

How’s that for hardball, you mean son of a bitch?

So as he pulled the Ferrari into the parking garage beneath Dibrell Tower a little after nine, Scott was smiling. And why not? He was still a partner in Ford Stevens LLP, the most profitable law firm in Dallas. He still made $750,000 a year (although he would have to recruit new clients to replace Tom Dibrell’s fees). He was still a local football legend, still able to bring a smile to any SMU alum’s face, still able to turn on the famous charm and flash that movie-star smile.

Scott Fenney was still a winner.

He stuck the key card into the slot on the entrance gate and waited for the gate to rise. And waited. He stuck the key card in again and waited. Still nothing. He punched the button that rang Osvaldo over in the exit booth twenty feet away. When Osvaldo turned and saw him, Scott waved him over. Osvaldo exited the booth and walked over. Scott held up the key card.