Mark Gimenez: The Color of Law

“Like I said, I don’t know anything about that.”

“And the last thing Senator McCall needed right before he announced for the presidency was Clark getting arrested, and not just for drinking or drugs-like you said, that’s common. But getting charged with rape, that’s not so common, is it? Particularly for the son of the next president. The press would go into a feeding frenzy, maybe even dredge up the other girls. The senator had spent millions to keep Clark’s past hidden so it wouldn’t ruin his political future. And now the presidency was his, he had a commanding lead in the polls, his dream was about to come true…and what was the only thing that could lose the White House for him before he had even won it? A rapist for a son. That would do it. That would destroy Senator McCall’s dream, wouldn’t it?”

Scott pointed back at the senator in the spectator section.

“When Senator McCall learned that Clark was coming to Dallas right before his big announcement, he sent you here to follow Clark, to keep him out of trouble.”

Scott held up another document from Carl’s envelope.

“Clark had booked a return flight to Washington on June sixth at three-twenty-one P.M. so he would be back for his father’s campaign kickoff. The senator knew that if Clark was flying to Dallas just for a Saturday night, that meant only one thing: his demons were calling again and he was answering. He was coming home to get drunk and stoned and pick up a girl. And the senator knew what usually happened when Clark’s dark side took over-exactly what he couldn’t let happen. He couldn’t wake up Sunday morning and read that his son had been arrested for beating and raping another girl in Dallas. So he sent you to Dallas to make sure that didn’t happen. Your job was to wet-nurse Clark, to be his guardian angel, to keep him out of trouble and out of the press. You came to Dallas to protect Senator McCall from his own son.”

Delroy’s eyes again looked past Scott to McCall. Scott turned to McCall as well, and what he saw surprised him. In the senator’s eyes and on the senator’s face Scott saw that he had it exactly wrong. He turned back to Delroy.

“The senator didn’t send you, did he? You freelanced this one. You ran this operation without his approval. Why? Why didn’t you tell the senator? Did you think it best to keep him out of the loop? Did you just not want to bother him right before his big day?” Scott shook his head. “Either way, you came here to make sure Clark didn’t screw things up for his father. That’s why you came to Dallas on Saturday, June the fifth, isn’t it, Mr. Lund?”

“No.”

“You flew to Dallas, you rented a car, you followed Clark that night, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You followed him down to Harry Hines where the prostitutes hang out, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“And there you watched Clark pull his Mercedes over to two black girls, one wearing a red wig, the other a blonde wig, isn’t that right?”

“No.”

“The girl in the blonde wig got into Clark’s car, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know.”

“That girl was the defendant, wasn’t she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why did you just refer to the defendant as ‘Blondie’?”

“I…”

“Her hair isn’t blonde, Mr. Lund, it’s brown. She hasn’t worn her blonde wig since that night. She’s been in jail, Mr. Lund.”

Scott stepped to the prosecution table, removed the blonde wig from the evidence bag, and handed it to Shawanda.

“Your Honor, may the defendant put on the wig?”

“Yes.”

Shawanda pulled the wig on. Scott returned to the podium and pointed at Shawanda.

“Mr. Lund, you saw the defendant wearing that wig that night-that’s the only way you’d know to call her ‘Blondie.’ You saw her get into Clark’s car. You followed them to the McCall mansion in Highland Park. You parked out of sight on the estate. You figured Clark couldn’t get into too much trouble with a black hooker. Oh, he might slap her around, but what’s she gonna do, call the cops? She wasn’t an SMU coed, she was just a hooker. So you sat outside while Clark had his fun.

“But then you saw the defendant drive off in Clark’s Mercedes. You ran inside and upstairs to Clark’s bedroom and you found Clark lying naked on the floor and holding his balls. And you…you laughed at him. The little rich boy got kneed in the balls by a black hooker, that was pretty damn funny. So you laughed at Clark. You mocked him. Did you call him a little fuckup?”

“I wasn’t there.”

“Clark didn’t like that, did he, someone like you mocking him? You were just an employee, and employees don’t mock Clark McCall. So he cursed you. You outweighed him by, what, a hundred pounds? But the alcohol and cocaine made him brave and getting beat up by a hooker made him mad, so he cursed you just like he cursed her. And then he…what? What else did he say to you? What could he say that would make you want to kill him?”

Scott snapped his fingers and pointed at Delroy.

“He threatened to get you fired. He was gonna tell Daddy and get you fired. Now, maybe he could, maybe he couldn’t, but you couldn’t take the chance. Because what would you do if he did get you fired, go back to the DEA? Not with your record. Your job prospects weren’t exactly bright, were they, Mr. Lund? Hell, if you got fired, your best hope for a job would be as a security guard at Wal-Mart. Delroy Lund, former big-shot DEA agent chasing Mexican drug lords on the border reduced to chasing shoplifters in a parking lot. That was your future without Senator McCall, wasn’t it? And that pissed you off, didn’t it, that little rich boy lying naked there on the floor, threatening your future? That little fuckup!

“Things got out of hand again, didn’t they, Mr. Lund? Clark got in your face just like that Mexican boy in Del Rio. Rage took over. You wanted desperately to kill Clark McCall. You saw a pistol lying there on the floor. You pulled your handkerchief from your pocket. You wrapped it around the pistol and picked the pistol up with your right hand. You stepped over to Clark. You reached down with your left hand and you grabbed the little fuckup’s hair and yanked his head up. Then you put the gun to his forehead above his left eye. And you pulled the trigger. You killed Clark McCall just like you killed that Mexican boy in Del Rio, didn’t you, Mr. Lund?”

Delroy’s eyes again went to Senator McCall. Scott turned and watched as bodyguard and senator stared at each other for a long moment; then McCall’s eyes dropped. His face sagged and he suddenly looked old, either from the realization that his own bodyguard had murdered his son or that his dream of living in the White House was over for good. Scott returned to Delroy.

“You thought the defendant would be blamed. Her gun, her fingerprints, but you didn’t know one critical fact. You didn’t know she was left-handed. That’s what happened that night. Things got out of hand and you killed Clark McCall. Didn’t you, Mr. Lund?”

Scott paused. All twelve jurors were leaning forward as if bracing against a wind. Judge Buford had turned in his chair and was focused intently on the witness. Ray Burns’s expression said he knew his coveted Washington assignment had just been lost. Bobby and Karen and Shawanda were practically on top of the defendant’s table. Dan Ford’s elbows were resting on the back of the pew in front and his hands were folded, as if praying. Boo and Pajamae were holding hands like finalists in a beauty pageant. The entire courtroom was waiting to hear Delroy Lund confess to killing Clark McCall. Scott decided Delroy needed a little push; he decided to get in Delroy’s face.

He grabbed the crime scene photo of Clark McCall from the defendant’s table and asked the judge for permission to approach the witness. When the judge nodded, Scott walked to the witness stand and dropped the photo in Delroy’s lap under his now downcast eyes. Then he got in Delroy’s face.