Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

Dinner on the kitchen floor was like a funeral reception.

“Everything Hu said is true,” Bobby said, “except it doesn’t prove Shawanda’s guilt. Problem is, she was in that room with him that night, they fought, and her gun was the murder weapon. So any reasonable person would assume she did it. And without Hannah Steele to back up a claim of self-defense-which is unavailable so long as Shawanda refuses to admit to shooting Clark-we can’t ask the jury to acquit her on that basis.”

“So what’s left?”

“We’ve got to answer one question for the jury, Scotty-what they want to know: Who killed Clark McCall? If Shawanda didn’t, who did? Who came into that house right after she left, before Clark could get up off the floor and get dressed, picked up her gun, stuck it to Clark’s head, and pulled the trigger?”

Scott shook his head. “Have you heard from Carl?”

“He’ll call when he gets something.”

“Well, he’s got twelve hours to save us. Right now all we’ve got is Shawanda, her word against the evidence.”

Pajamae said, “Mama’s going to testify?”

“Yes, honey. She has to.”

“What’s she gonna wear?”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“We saved some of Mother’s things at the yard sale,” Boo said, “for Pajamae’s mother. For when she gets out.”

Scott turned to Karen. “Will you help the girls pick out some clothes?”

“Sure.”

“At least she’ll be nicely dressed.”

They ate the take-out Mexican food in silence now. Scott absentmindedly watched the girls eat, wondering how Pajamae would handle life with her mother on death row and then life without her mother after the execution, when he noticed something: Boo was holding her fork in her left hand.

“Boo, come over here.”

She got up off the floor and stepped over to him. Scott took the aluminum foil wrapping from his entree and fashioned it into the shape of an L. An aluminum foil gun. He placed it on the floor.

“Please pick that up.”

Boo frowned. “What’s it supposed to be, a gun?”

“Yes.”

She shrugged, leaned down, and picked up the foil gun with her left hand.

“Now grab my hair.”

She stood directly in front of him and with her right hand grabbed his hair above his left eye.

“Now point the gun at my forehead like you’re going to shoot me.”

She put the barrel of the foil gun to Scott’s forehead, above his right eye.

Bobby said, “Clark was shot above his left eye.”

“By a right-handed killer.”

Seeing Boo hold her fork with her left hand, Scott had remembered his first meeting with Shawanda, when she had held his pen with her left hand.

“Pajamae, your mother’s left-handed, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Fenney, she sure is.”

The Defense calls FBI Agent Henry Hu.”

Ray Burns was out of his chair.

“Your Honor, Mr. Fenney declined cross-examination of Agent Hu yesterday; now he’s calling him as a defense witness?”

The judge looked at Scott: “Mr. Fenney?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Your Honor.”

“Proceed.”

Scott had been so sure that his client had killed Clark McCall that he had failed to ask a basic factual question of the government’s forensic expert: Was the murderer right- or left-handed? He had been so sure his client was lying that he had failed to even consider that she might be telling the truth. Now, for the first time since he had been appointed to represent the defendant in United States of America versus Shawanda Jones, Scott knew his client was innocent. Shawanda Jones did not kill Clark McCall.

But then, who did?

Agent Hu took the stand, with the judge reminding him that he was still under oath, and Scott said, “Agent Hu, your testimony yesterday was quite illuminating, and I mean that as a compliment.”

“Thank you.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to reenact for the jury the manner in which you believe Clark McCall was murdered.”

“Certainly.”

“My cocounsel, Mr. Herrin, will assist. Bobby, if you’ll kneel on the floor.”

Bobby walked over and knelt in front of Scott.

“Now, Agent Hu, your testimony is that Clark was halfway between lying and kneeling on the floor like Mr. Herrin is here when he was shot, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And the killer was facing Clark, as I am now, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And the killer grabbed Clark’s hair on the right side of his scalp, like this?”

Scott grabbed Bobby’s hair with his left hand.

“Yes.”

“And the killer than stuck the gun to Clark’s forehead above his left eye, like this?”

Scott fashioned his right hand like a gun and stuck his index finger to Bobby’s forehead.

“And the killer then shot Clark?”

“Yes. That is how I believe the crime occurred.”

“Well, I agree with you. But doesn’t this demonstration prove something else, something important about the killer?”

Agent Hu frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“The killer was right-handed.”

Agent Hu’s expression revealed his realization. “Yes, most likely the killer would have been right-handed.”

“The killer grabbed Clark’s hair with his left hand and held the gun with his right hand, correct?”

“Yes, that would be correct.”

“One other thing, Agent Hu. The medical examiner testified that there was a contusion around Clark’s right eye, as if he had been hit with a fist.”

“Yes, there was.”

“As a forensic expert, is it more likely that the person who hit Clark’s eye was right- or left-handed?”

“Left-handed.”

“So the person who punched Clark McCall was left-handed, but the person who shot him was right-handed?”

“Yes, that would be the most likely scenario.”

Scott called FBI Agent Edwards to the stand again.

“Agent Edwards, you testified that you arrested the defendant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that you took her statement?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You typed what she said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then she read it over and signed it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“With which hand did she sign her statement?”

Agent Edwards thought for a moment, then said, “Her left hand.”

The jurors had yet to see the defendant in person. They had seen her mug shots and pictures in the newspapers and on television, but they had not seen her. And they needed to see her and hear her, to listen and watch as she denied killing Clark McCall. Scott knew he had to put Shawanda on the stand, the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution notwithstanding, but he wanted to give her the best possible chance of success. So he had done two things: he had persuaded the judge to allow her methadone treatment, and he had kept her out of court until this moment.

Now all eyes-those of the judge and the jurors and the prosecutors and the spectators-were focused on the door at the side of the courtroom, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Shawanda Jones. Boo and Pajamae and Karen had been allowed in her cell-after being searched by a female guard-to help Shawanda get dressed. They had come into the courtroom a few minutes ago. Boo gave Scott another thumbs-up.

The door opened and a murmur ran through the room. Shawanda did not look like the heroin addict Scott had seen earlier that morning; she looked stunning and young. Scott had forgotten she was only twenty-four, the heroin had aged her so. But today she had recaptured her youth. She was wearing Rebecca’s navy blue suit, Rebecca’s high heels, and Rebecca’s makeup; her hair was fluffed lightly and brushed smooth; her eyes were sharp and alert. She looked at Scott and smiled. Shawanda looked like Halle Berry on a very good day.