Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

The jurors’ eyes followed her as Ron escorted her over to the defendant’s table and pulled out her chair. She sat daintily and Ron pushed her chair in. She turned and looked at each juror, one by one, and they looked at her. Their first impression was a good one. Scott glanced back at the McCalls: the senator’s face revealed his worry, Jean’s face her jealousy. Beside them, Dan Ford’s face showed renewed interest in the proceeding.

Scott stood and said, “The defense calls Shawanda Jones.”

Shawanda stood and walked to the witness stand, took the oath, and sat down. Scott stood at the podium.

“Ms. Jones,” he said, “are you left-handed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you kill Clark McCall?”

“No, sir, Mr. Fenney. I did not.”

“All right, Ms. Jones, let’s talk about your life. Where were you born?”

“In the projects.”

“The projects in South Dallas, same place you now reside?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was your mother’s name?”

“My mama, she was called Dorena.”

“What was your father’s name?”

“Mr. Fenney, you know I don’t know that.”

“Your mother and father, they weren’t married?”

“No, sir. My daddy, he was a white man my mama worked for. She cleaned his office.”

“Okay, so you were born illegitimate?”

“No, sir, I was born in a hospital, Parkland.”

“Uh, okay. You never knew your father, correct?”

“No, sir.”

“You grew up in the projects?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your mother died when you were thirteen?”

“Something like that.”

“What did she die of?”

“No doctor.”

“No, I mean, did she die of cancer or what?”

“No, sir, she died ’cause she ain’t got no doctor. She fall over and we call for the ambulance and no one come.”

“And so you raised yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you fell in with a bad crowd.”

“Only crowd we got in the projects, Mr. Fenney. People got nothing to do, they get in trouble.”

“And you got in trouble.”

“Eddie, he my trouble.”

“Eddie was your child’s father?”

“Yes, sir. White man selling dope in the projects, seen me one day, when I was fourteen. He like what he seen, so he give me some dope and I let him touch me.”

“And Eddie gave you heroin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you became addicted at age sixteen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And by that time you were a prostitute?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

Her eyes dropped. “Mens, they think they gonna find all they been missing in they lives between Shawanda’s legs. Ain’t so.” She looked up. “It the only thing men ever want from me.”

“Ms. Jones, do you have a daughter?”

“Why, you know that, Mr. Fenney. She staying with you.”

The teacher and the housewives smiled. Scott turned to Pajamae behind him and gestured for her to stand. Pajamae stood, the most innocent expression imaginable on her face.

“Is she your daughter?”

“Yes, sir, that my baby.”

Pajamae turned to the jury and curtsied. Now every juror was smiling. The kid was good.

They broke for lunch before beginning Shawanda’s testimony about the night Clark McCall was murdered. Shawanda was not sitting on the floor with the girls, but at the table with Scott and Bobby and Karen, being very careful not to spill tuna fish on her Neiman Marcus suit.

“We’ve got a really pretty outfit for you to wear tomorrow, Mama,” Pajamae said from the floor.

“How I do, Mr. Fenney?”

“Fine, Shawanda. But the hard part’s this afternoon.”

“Think they gonna believe me?”

He thought no but said yes.

“Ms. Jones,” Scott said, “let’s go back to Saturday, June fifth. Did you take heroin that day?”

“I was alive, so I must have.”

“You took it every day?”

“Two, three time.”

“So before you went to work that night, you injected heroin?”

“Yes, sir. Make it easier that way.”

“Make what easier?”

“Sex.”

“All right, then Kiki, another prostitute, came by and the two of you drove over to Harry Hines Boulevard?”

“Yes, sir, our regular location.”

“And you waited for men to come by?”

“We never wait too long.”

“And did Clark McCall come by?”

“Yes, sir, but I don’t know him. He just a white boy in a black Mercedes.”

“And he offered you one thousand dollars to spend the night with him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, before Clark, did you, uh, work for another client?”

“No, sir, I don’t work for no one. I’m self-employed.”

“I mean, did anyone else pay you for a sex act that night?”

“I give a blow to a cop, but he don’t pay.”

“You engaged in oral sex with a police officer?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Fenney, that way he don’t bother us. Me and Kiki, we take turns with the cops. They freebies.”

“Okay, so back to Clark McCall. You got into his car and he drove you to his mansion in Highland Park?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you went inside?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And upstairs to his bedroom?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell the jury what happened then.”

Shawanda turned to the jurors and told them the story of that night without shame or guilt, just as a matter of fact. That she and Clark engaged in sex, after, that is, she made him put on a condom-“I can’t get that AIDS. I gotta take care of my Pajamae”-that he became rough, started slapping her, calling her nigger, that she scratched and punched him in the eye and kicked him in his balls, that he fell to the floor, and that she took her thousand dollars and his car keys, drove herself back to Harry Hines, and abandoned the car.

“And Clark McCall was alive the last time you saw him?”

“Yes, sir, he sure was, cussing me like a redheaded stepchild.”

“What did you and Kiki do then?”

“Go home, go to bed.”

“What did you do the next morning, Sunday?”

“Got up, fixed breakfast for Pajamae, go to church.”

“You went to church?”

She had a bemused expression. “Mr. Fenney, without sinners, no need for churches.”

The jurors smiled at that remark.

“And what were you doing when the FBI came to arrest you?”

“Sitting outside on the stoop, watching Pajamae.”

“Did you know why they were arresting you?”

“They say for killing some man. I said, I don’t kill no one. They don’t believe me.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Ray Burns nearly knocked Scott down, he was in such a hurry to cross-examine Shawanda.

“Ms. Jones, you’re a prostitute, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And a heroin addict?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you were with Clark McCall the night he was murdered?”

“That what the police say. I don’t know when he be killed.”

“He picked you up for sex, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He offered you a thousand dollars for the night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You got into his car, a Mercedes-Benz, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He drove you to his home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You went upstairs, he gave you alcohol to drink?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He removed his clothes, you removed your clothes, and you and Clark McCall engaged in sexual intercourse, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then you hit him in the eye?”

“Only ’cause he slap me and call me nigger.”

“And you kicked him in the groin?”

“No, sir, I didn’t kick his growing, I kick his balls.”

“Okay, his balls.”

“’Cause he be coming after me again.”