Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

Hannah liked to walk the seawall.

Her therapist said it was good for her to take these walks and to realize that all around her life went on and that her life must as well. But Hannah always focused on the kids; her therapist said she would have children one day, but Hannah didn’t think she would ever be able to have sex again. Clark McCall had destroyed her life.

And now his life was over.

She had tried not to feel happy when she had heard about Clark’s death. But somewhere deep inside her she hoped he had suffered. Now she was the accused woman’s only hope, Mr. Fenney had said. Her only hope. So she would fly to Dallas on Sunday. It would be her first trip back since she had left.

Could she do it?

Could she go into that courtroom and sit up there and see Senator McCall and tell the world what Clark did to her? He kissed me… he touched me… I said no… he said yes… he slapped me… hit me… once, twice, three times, harder each time… he was wild-eyed, crazy, strong

… he pinned me down… pulled my panties down… pried my legs apart… yes, I fought him… but he was too strong… he pushed into me… the pain… the pain…

The pain would never go away.

She had gone to SMU on a dance scholarship. She loved to dance. She had not danced since that night. The rape had changed her life. She hadn’t been able to get over it, to get on with her life. Her therapist had convinced her that testifying at the trial might be just the closure she needed to move forward. She almost walked into a man.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“Hello, Hannah,” the man said.

Hannah looked up at the big bald man in front of her and started to cry.

The only open chair was next to Penny Birnbaum.

Scott and Bobby had returned home and eaten lunch with Louis and the girls. Scott had then driven the Jetta to the title company that was closing the sale of 4000 Beverly Drive. The receptionist led him to the small conference room where he would sign over his home to Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Birnbaum.

Penny was smiling and patting the seat of the empty chair.

Scott introduced himself to Joy, the closing agent sitting on the near side of the table next to Jeffrey, who was poring over the stack of documents like a jeweler over a new batch of uncut diamonds. Scott walked around the table, sat next to Penny, and scooted his chair up under the table. Before he had settled in, her right hand was on his left knee.

“I still need to measure for furniture, Scott,” she said.

She was wearing a sundress that accentuated her round breasts and narrow waist. Her hand moved up to Scott’s thigh and began closing in on his crotch. He reached down, grabbed her wrist, and placed her hand firmly in her lap. She pushed out her lips in a pouty face. But when he released her wrist, her hand returned to his thigh like a spring-action screen door slamming in place. She smiled.

Joy pushed a pile of papers across the table to Scott and began reciting the numbers shown on the closing statement.

“Three-point-four million sales price due to the seller, less deductions for the loan payoff, two-point-eight million principal plus twenty-four thousand eight hundred ninety accrued interest, the title policy premium, nineteen thousand, miscellaneous title company charges for the escrow fee-”

“Two-fifty?” Jeffrey said.

Joy said, “Standard charge.”

“But there’s no escrow.”

“We still charge the fee.”

“But-”

“I’ll pay the two-fifty, Jeffrey,” Scott said.

He wasn’t in the mood to argue over a $250 charge in a $3.4 million deal. Even with that deduction, Scott would net over $500,000 from the sale. After paying taxes and closing on the little starter home by SMU, with the rest of his 401(k) and the $67,000 from the yard sale, he’d have enough to start a new life.

He removed Penny’s hand again and whispered, “Stop!”

Across the table, Jeffrey and Joy were huddled over the buyer’s closing documents, more voluminous because of the mortgage documents between Jeffrey and his bank. Scott’s thoughts drifted back to that day three years ago when he had signed similar mortgage documents to purchase this very home, but before he could get very far he felt a soft whisper in his ear: “I’m not wearing any panties.”

Penny pulled back and their eyes met. Her eyes dropped and led his down. She twisted slightly in her chair and spread her legs a little and slowly slid the end of her dress up to reveal her tanned lower thighs, her smooth upper thighs, and finally that lovely intersection of thighs and torso. Scott inhaled sharply. She wasn’t lying.

Scott felt the blood rush southward. He began signing the closing papers as fast as his hand could scribble his signature: the closing statement, lien affidavits, nonresident alien certification, tax proration agreement, and the deed conveying his dream house to Jeffrey Birnbaum et ux Penny Birnbaum. Scott’s hand trembled when he signed A. Scott Fenney. He pushed the deed across the table to Jeffrey. And with that, his dream home was gone. He felt as if he had handed over his manhood.

But he knew he hadn’t because Penny had a firm hold on his manhood below the table. Scott’s face felt hot, whether from the emotion of signing away his home or the movement of Penny’s hand, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that he had to get out of this closing fast, so he scratched his name on the final document, the temporary lease by which he would lease the home back from the Birnbaums for ten days, enough time to vacate the premises. He pushed the paper across the table to Jeffrey, who glanced up from his stack of documents and at the lease, then at Scott and Penny and back to Scott, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“What the hell’s going on?” he said.

Scott froze, as did Penny’s hand.

“Uh, what do you mean, Jeffrey?”

Jeffrey picked up the lease. “Ten days? It was supposed to be seven.”

Scott exhaled with relief; Penny’s hand went back to work.

“Jeffrey, you moved up closing to today.”

“Well, can’t you get out sooner? We’re ready to move in.”

“No, Jeffrey, I can’t. I’ve got a murder trial starting Monday-you might’ve read about it. That’s a little more important than you getting into my house a few days earlier.”

“It’s not your house anymore, Scott.”

Jeffrey said it with the arrogance of a man completely unaware that at that very moment his wife was massaging another man’s penis.

That night, after prayers, Pajamae asked Scott, “So those twelve people are going to decide what happens to Mama?”

“Yes, baby, they are.”

“Do you trust them, Mr. Fenney?”

“Well…I don’t know them well enough to know whether I trust them or not. I hope they can find a way to be fair.”

Pajamae said, “I’m going to pray for them.”

“The jurors?”

She nodded. “Mama always says to pray for other people, so they do the right thing. Like she said I should pray for you.”

When Scott woke up on Sunday morning, his mind instantly filled with fear. The trial would begin in twenty-four hours: Was he a good enough lawyer to save Shawanda? For the last eleven years, when he needed help, Scott had always gone to Dan Ford. Now he needed help and his thoughts went to Butch Fenney: Son, when you need help, hit your knees.

Scott rolled out of bed, put on his shorts, and hurried down the hall and up the stairs to the third floor. He found the girls on the bed. Pajamae was fixing Boo’s cornrows.

“Get your clothes on, girls, we’re going to church.”

Boo’s mouth fell open.

Louis led the way up the sidewalk to the front entrance of the small church in East Dallas and Pajamae said, “I wondered why y’all never went to church. Mama and me, we go every Sunday. I figured maybe white people just didn’t go to church.”