Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

Two months ago, Scott would have jumped for joy at the judge’s words. But now he sat stunned and suddenly afraid of losing his last client, even a nonpaying client, because a lawyer without a client is just a man.

“Judge, I know I’m not the lawyer you are, or the lawyer my mother wanted me to be…hell, I’m not even the lawyer I wanted to be. But I’m not a quitter. I never quit in a game, I’ve never quit on anything in my life. I’ll play it out.”

The judge’s eyes came back up, and now he glared at Scott.

“This isn’t a goddamn football game, Scott!”

Scott recoiled at the judge’s harsh voice.

“This case isn’t about you, your life, you proving something to yourself or Dan Ford or Mack McCall! This case is about Shawanda Jones, about her life! She’s the defendant! It’s her right to counsel, goddamnit!”

The judge stood abruptly, stepped to the window, and stared out. After a time, he spoke softly.

“I’m an old judge who needs to retire and tend to his garden. But a case like this comes along, and I know I can still contribute to justice, one human being at a time-and that’s how justice is served, Scott, one person at a time. Today we’re here to protect Shawanda Jones. That woman is my responsibility as long as she’s in the custody of the federal government. Which arrested her, took her from her home and child, and is putting her on trial for her life. Now, maybe she did it, maybe she didn’t, I don’t know. But until the jury speaks, she’s innocent in the eyes of the law-and thus in my eyes. And I will protect her. That’s my duty. And her lawyer’s duty is to defend her, to make damn sure the government proves she did it, beyond all reasonable doubt. That’s what the Constitution requires, a lawyer standing up to the government on behalf of a citizen. That’s what it means to be a lawyer, Scott.”

The judge returned to his desk and sat.

“When I was practicing, I had half a dozen cases like this, where the defendant’s guilt was truly in doubt, and in each case I made damn sure the government had to prove its case. Which the government did not do. They were innocent, and they were acquitted. Six people, Scott, six human beings whose lives I saved. I cared about those people, and I care about Ms. Jones. I’m not gonna die rich, Scott, but those few cases, they’re my contribution to justice. They’re what made my life worthwhile. Ms. Jones needs a lawyer who cares about her, someone to stand up for her, someone who understands the honor of defending an American citizen facing a death sentence. She needs her hero. You were such a football player, I thought you might be such a lawyer. I was wrong.” The judge picked up his pen. “You’re off the case. I’ll appoint Herrin and postpone the trial.”

Scott jumped up and leaned over the judge’s desk.

“Judge, you can’t postpone the trial! It’ll kill her! She’s barely hanging in now. I’ve been telling her it’ll be over soon. If you postpone the trial, she’ll die in her cell!”

The judge sat back, a curious expression on his face.

“What’s this, concern for your client?”

“You’re right, Judge, I haven’t thought about her. But I’m a damn good lawyer, and she needs me.”

Judge Buford removed his reading glasses and wiped them with his white handkerchief. He replaced them and gazed at Scott.

“She’s a heroin addict, you know that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t you file a motion to have her transferred to the prison hospital, for drug treatment?”

“I…I never thought about it.”

“Well, I did. She refused. She wants to be close to her daughter. You ever see a heroin addict go through withdrawal?”

“No, sir.”

“Go downstairs and look. She’s going through hell, alone in her cell, so she can see her daughter. What’s that tell you about her? Tells me there’s something good inside that woman, that maybe we need to look past the prostitution and the heroin and not just assume she’s guilty, that maybe we ought to give her the benefit of the doubt. Beyond all reasonable doubt, Scott.” He sighed. “So I’ve got Burns trying to send her to death row on his asinine legal position, which the appeals court will probably uphold, and I’ve got you. There’s no hope for him-he’s the worst kind of lawyer, a political animal, using the law to gain power over the people. And you, A. Scott Fenney…what’s the A stand for, anyway?”

“Nothing.”

The judge grunted. “You don’t want power; you just want money. So the question I’ve got to answer is, Is there hope for you? I know you bring her daughter up here to see her, the guards say three, four times a week. That’s good. And that you took her in, to live in your Highland Park home. That’s very good.”

The judge paused; a chuckle escaped.

“You’re probably not up for citizen of the year in Highland Park, are you? But that tells me there’s something good inside you, too, Scott, that perhaps there’s still hope for you, that maybe you won’t become another Dan Ford. That one day you might make your mother proud.”

The judge fell silent and stared at Scott in the same way all those college coaches who had come to the Fenney rent house to recruit him had stared, seeing him in the flesh, trying to size him up, figure him out, decide if he was the real deal. Then Buford abruptly waved Scott off and said, “Go away.”

“Wh… what? ”

“Go think about it. I’ve got hearings until noon. You come back then-but only if you’re ready to be her lawyer. If you don’t show, I’ll substitute Herrin and postpone the trial.”

Outside, Bobby and Ray were waiting.

“What’s up?” Bobby said.

Scott shook his head. “Personal.” Then he addressed Ray Burns. “You’re being a prick, Ray.”

“Yeah, Scott, a prick with a career. A death penalty gets me an office in D.C.”

“How do you sleep with yourself?”

Ray laughed. “Uh-oh, a born-again lawyer. Eleven years you spend every waking minute billing hours, making boatloads of money, living in a mansion, driving a Ferrari-how much did that cost your clients? Then you get fired and suddenly you see the light like a dying man: I wanna do good, Lord! Bullshit, Scott. You don’t give a flying fuck about her. She’s just a nigger, right? Two months ago, you were trying to bail on her faster than you can spit, now you’re gonna be her hero? Tell it to Oprah. Oh, and I don’t sleep by myself, Scott, I sleep with a gorgeous redhead from accounting. Who you sleeping with? Not your wife; she’s sleeping with her golf pro.”

Scott lunged for Ray, but Bobby jumped in between them.

“Hell, Scott,” Ray said with a little laugh, “don’t worry. The bitch probably won’t live through withdrawal.”

In one quick movement, Bobby released Scott and punched Ray in the mouth. Ray fell back against the wall.

Bobby said, “I told you, Ray.”

“I’m real worried about her, Mr. Fenney,” Ron the guard said. “I’m thinking maybe I made a mistake, taking her H.”

They were standing outside Shawanda’s cell. Inside, she was lying on her bed facing the far wall, curled up in a ball, her entire body shivering uncontrollably. She was groaning as if she were dying, her skin glistened with sweat, and her legs kicked involuntarily.

“That’s why they call it kicking the habit,” Bobby said. “Right now, she’d give everything she has in life for one fix.”

Bobby was rubbing his right fist. “Hitting someone hurts.”

“I’m proud of you, Bobby.” Scott pointed the Jetta toward Highland Park and said, “You know what pisses me off the most?”

“The Ferrari?”

“No, about Burns.”

“What?”

“The prick’s right. About me.”