Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

“He was a little fu…” Delroy stopped and glanced past Scott to Senator McCall.

“A little fuckup? Isn’t that what you called Clark? Isn’t that the term you used to describe him?”

Delroy looked back at Scott and said, “He was a real nice boy.”

“A real nice boy who liked to beat and rape girls?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Where were you on the night of Saturday, June fifth, of this year?”

“D.C.”

“Washington, D.C.?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

Scott picked up another document from Carl’s envelope. “Mr. Lund, I have a copy of a first-class plane ticket from Washington to Dallas, flight number 1607 on American at eight-twenty-three A.M. on Saturday, June the fifth, in the name of Clark McCall.”

“So?”

Scott picked up the next document. “So I also have a copy of another first-class plane ticket from Washington to Dallas, at eight-thirty A.M. on the same day, flight number 1815 on US Airways. It has your name on it.”

Delroy didn’t blink an eye. “Must be a mistake.”

“You think there’s another Delroy Lund running around out there?”

“You never know.”

“Clark’s flight was booked at four-thirty-seven P.M. on June fourth. Your flight was booked twenty-eight minutes later. You had someone in Clark’s office keeping tabs on him, didn’t you?”

“Nope.”

“May I see your driver’s license?”

“What?”

“Your driver’s license, would you please produce it?”

The slightest hint of unease invaded Delroy’s dark eyes. He leaned slightly to his left and reached around to his right back pant pocket. He pulled out his wallet, removed his license, and somewhat reluctantly held it out to Scott.

“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

Judge Buford nodded. Scott walked over, took the license, and walked back to the podium. He compared the license to the next document.

“Mr. Lund, you’re sure this isn’t your plane ticket?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re sure you weren’t in Dallas on June fifth?”

“Yeah.”

Scott held up the document. “Well, then how do you explain this rental car agreement with Avis at the Dallas airport dated June fifth with your signature and driver’s license number on it?”

Delroy uncrossed his legs. His eyes turned down. His expression did not change, but his jaw muscles began flexing rapidly, like he was grinding his teeth into chalk. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his broad forehead. He was lying and everyone in the courtroom knew it. He knew that they knew it, and that he was on the verge of a perjury charge. But Delroy Lund hadn’t gone toe-to-toe with Mexican drug lords without having brass balls. His face turned up, he looked Scott straight in the eye, and he said, “You know what, now that you remind me, I was in Dallas that day. I forgot.”

“You forgot?”

“Yeah, I forgot.”

“Okay, Mr. Lund, we’ll go with that. You arrived in Dallas on Saturday, June fifth, at eleven A.M. and you left Sunday afternoon on US Airways flight number 1812 at four-fifty-five P.M.?”

“Sounds about right.”

“So why did you come to Dallas for just thirty hours?”

Delroy grinned. “To get laid. To pick up a two-bit hooker”-he gestured at Shawanda-“like Blondie there and get laid.”

“Mr. Lund, do you usually carry a handkerchief?”

“Yeah. Allergies.”

“May I see it?”

He reached back, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and held it out to Scott.

“Keep it.”

Scott walked over to the defendant’s table to get a pad and pen. He looked at Shawanda and froze…her hair was brown. Not blonde like the…Scott glanced over at the prosecution table…wig. The wig she had been wearing that night was blonde. Delroy just called Shawanda “Blondie.” Delroy had been there that night.

Delroy Lund murdered Clark McCall.

Scott’s adrenaline pump kicked in like an overdrive. His mind started working fast. The murderer was sitting in the witness chair ten feet away, but Scott had nothing to tie this man to that crime. Delroy Lund was an experienced lawman; he had left no incriminating evidence at the crime scene. Scott’s only hope was to get Delroy to confess on the stand, to break down and blurt out the truth, to tell the world that he had murdered Clark McCall. A Perry Mason moment. A moment lawyers dream of. A moment that happens only on TV and in the movies.

Scott walked over to the witness stand and placed the pad and pen in front of Delroy.

“Mr. Lund, would you please sign your name?”

Delroy shrugged, picked up the pen with his right hand, and signed his name.

“You’re right-handed, Mr. Lund.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“So the FBI’s forensic expert testified that the person who shot Clark McCall was right-handed. You’re right-handed, the murderer was right-handed. The murder occurred in Dallas on June fifth, you were in Dallas on June fifth.”

“Ninety percent of the people in this room are right-handed. And more than that were in Dallas on June fifth.”

“Yes, but none of them had a reason to kill Clark McCall, did they?”

“You’ll have to ask them.”

“I’ll ask you: Did you kill Clark McCall?”

The judge was studying the witness when Ray Burns stood to object. “Your Honor-”

“Sit, Mr. Burns,” the judge said without removing his gaze from Delroy. Ray sat. “Answer the question, Mr. Lund.”

Delroy said, “No, I didn’t kill Clark. Why would I want him dead? I work for his dad.”

“Who wants to be president.”

“So?”

“So if it became known that his son used cocaine and engaged prostitutes and maybe even raped a few girls, Senator McCall’s chances of getting into the White House would be about as good as the defendant’s, isn’t that true?”

Delroy snorted. “Give me a fuckin’ break.”

The judge: “Mr. Lund, watch your language.”

Delroy said, “Hell, if having a screwup for a kid was a motive for murder, half the politicians in D.C. would’ve already killed their kids. I don’t know nothing about rapes, but you think Clark was the only politician’s kid out drinking and doing drugs and other stuff their daddies want to keep quiet? The town’s full of ’em, rich kids who had life handed to them on a silver platter then shit on it.”

“Mr. Lund, why did you decide to get laid in Dallas on June fifth?”

Delroy shrugged. “Most beautiful women in the world are in Dallas.”

“That may be true, but you work for Senator McCall in Washington. Certainly you could have found an acceptable prostitute in the nation’s capital so you could remain in town, especially since two days later, on June seventh, the senator was scheduled to announce his campaign for the presidency. But instead of staying in D.C., you came to Dallas on June fifth to get laid, on the same day Clark came to Dallas? Mr. Lund, did you come specifically to kill Clark?”

Delroy sighed. “I said, I didn’t kill Clark.”

“Then why did you come to Dallas? Why did you leave Washington two days before Senator McCall’s big day? Why did you fly down to Dallas to pick up a prostitute instead of staying in Washington and protecting the senator-”

It hit Scott.

“That’s it, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“It’s just that simple, isn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t come here to kill Clark. You came to Dallas to protect Senator McCall.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Lund, what usually happened when Clark was in Dallas?”

“I give, what?”

“He got in trouble. He always came home to get into trouble. Fact is, Clark was smart enough to get in trouble only in Dallas, because here his daddy could buy his way out of anything. The McCall name means something in Dallas. The McCall money can buy anything in Dallas-even seven rape victims.”