Mark Gimenez - The Color of Law

“This case has given me a chance to do something I had never been able to do before as a lawyer: make my mother proud. I hope I did that. I hope my mother is finally proud of me.” He paused. “And I hope you’ll make your mothers proud of you, too.”

The judge instructed the jury at 11:45. The jurors retired to the jury room for lunch and deliberations, Judge Buford to his chambers, Shawanda to her cell, and Scott, Bobby, Karen, and the girls to the house on Beverly Drive.

Scott had waited for jury verdicts many times in his career, all in civil cases where only money was at stake. While waiting for his last jury verdict, he had spent the time back in his office calculating alternate bills for his client, one at a straight hourly billing if they lost, and one with an added bonus if they won. Clients won or lost, but the lawyers always won.

This case was different.

It wasn’t about money; it was about Shawanda’s life. Twelve people were deciding whether she would live or die, whether she would spend the rest of her life in prison or free, whether Pajamae would have a mother or a memory.

The court clerk called at 1:30. The jury had a verdict.

“Ms. Jones,” Judge Buford said, “please rise.”

Shawanda Jones and her three lawyers stood and turned to the jury. Several jurors, black and brown and white, had tears in their eyes, as Shawanda did in hers. Scott felt Shawanda’s hand next to his, trembling, her entire body shaking. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

The foreperson of the jury handed the verdict to the bailiff who handed it to the judge. Judge Buford put on his reading glasses, gazed at the piece of paper, then raised his eyes to the defendant.

“In the matter of United States of America versus Shawanda Jones, the jury finds the defendant not guilty.”

Shawanda sagged and would have fallen to the floor if Scott had not caught her. She buried her face in his chest and embraced him. He held her tightly, his tears mixing with hers. Boo and Pajamae ran to them as the courtroom erupted in cheers and shouts and applause. The jurors hugged each other, reporters crowded Scott and Shawanda, Ray Burns sat at the prosecution table shaking his head, and Bobby and Karen kissed like newlyweds. Senator McCall pushed his way through the crowd and out of the courtroom. Dan Ford sat shaking his head in wonderment at the turn of events. Shawanda whispered in Scott’s ear, “That a righteous name, Atticus.”

Scott turned to the bench and his eyes met Judge Buford’s. The judge nodded at Scott and Scott nodded back.

Shawanda Jones was free. Half an hour later, they finally made their way through the mob of reporters and cameras and to the sidewalk fronting the federal building. Dan Ford was waiting there. Scott sent Shawanda and the girls ahead and walked over. Dan held out his hand and Scott took it.

“Scotty, my boy, you are one fine lawyer.”

“Dan, I’m not your boy anymore.”

“Yes, well…look, Scotty, Mack won’t be in the White House now, so why don’t you come back? You can have your old office, I’ll fix things with Dibrell and the bank, you can buy another big house, get the Ferrari back…you can go back to your old life-with a substantial raise, say a million a year. Not bad for a thirty-six-year-old lawyer. What do you say?”

There was a time. And a place. And a lawyer.

But they were no more.

“Dan, I’m just not the Ford Stevens type.”

Scott turned away from Dan Ford only to find his path blocked by another familiar face: Harry Hankin.

“Harry! How you doing, buddy?”

During his four-year tenure as a member of the country club, Scott had played golf with Harry most Saturday mornings-and usually won a hundred bucks from Harry most Saturday mornings. Harry fought a wicked slice. They shook hands, and Scott threw a thumb back at the courthouse.

“You got a trial?”

Harry Hankin was the premier divorce lawyer in Dallas, admitted to the membership of the country club only after his written promise never to represent a member’s wife.

“Uh…well…no.” Harry glanced down at his shiny shoes, then back up. “Here.”

Harry held out a thick document, almost as if he were embarrassed. Scott took the document and his trained eyes immediately found the caption: PETITION FOR DIVORCE.

“I wanted to do this personally, Scott, so I could explain.”

“She filed for divorce?”

Harry nodded. “Trey, the pro, he hired me-or he’s paying me. He’s already won a tournament, a million bucks, so he can afford me.”

Scott almost laughed. “We played golf how many times, Harry? A hundred? And you’re taking money from the guy my wife ran off with?”

“I couldn’t say no, Scott-he cured my slice.”

Scott laughed now. “Well, sure, Harry, straightening out your golf swing, that’s pretty goddamned important.”

“You thought so once.” Harry turned his hands up. “Look, I’m sorry, Scott.”

“Is she happy?”

Harry shrugged lamely. “I was married to a woman like her. With them, you never really know.”

“Does she want Boo?”

“What?”

Scott held up the petition. “Does she want custody of Boo?”

Harry shook his head slowly. “No. She said the PGA tour is no place for a little girl. And she said you need Boo more than Boo needs her.”

Scott started to walk away, but stopped when Harry said, “Scott.” Scott turned back to the divorce lawyer. “I’ll take his money, Scott, but I’d never take your girl.”

The two lawyers locked eyes, and Scott recalled that some years back, Harry Hankin had lost his own children in a bitter divorce.

“Thanks, Harry.”

Scott caught up with the others a block down the street, where Louis was leaning against his old car and Shawanda was turning in circles, her arms spread, her face to the sky, a young beautiful woman, her tan skin radiant in the sun’s reflection. Pajamae and Boo were watching and laughing joyously. Scott smiled at the sight. It was without question the best moment of Atticus Scott Fenney’s legal career.

Boo said, “A. Scott, they want to help us move.”

“Boo, I don’t think Shawanda wants to spend her first free day in three months helping us move.”

Shawanda said, “Yes, I do, Mr. Fenney. Me and Pajamae, we come tomorrow. Louis, he bring us over.”

Louis walked over to Scott and they shook hands.

“You a good man, Mr. Fenney.”

“Thanks, Louis, for watching the girls. For everything.” To Shawanda, Scott said, “Look, I want you to go into rehab, okay. I’ll pay for it.”

“Thought you ain’t got no money?”

“I sold my house. And I want you to work for Bobby and me, we’re gonna start a firm. I want you and Pajamae out of the projects.”

“Thanks, Mr. Fenney, for being my lawyer. And for caring about me.”

Shawanda smiled and reached up and touched his cheek and gazed at him in the oddest way, as if memorizing his face. She stretched up and he leaned down and she kissed his cheek.

“I ain’t never gonna forget you, Mr. Fenney.”

And he would never forget her. And when Scott Fenney returned home, he would be greeted by enchiladas and Consuela de la Rosa, who had just arrived by bus from the border-the INS had granted her green card “out of the blue,” Senor Gutierrez had said when he called her that morning. He did not know how and he did not know why and she did not care; she only knew that now she would always live with Senor Fenney and Boo, her familia. And later that night when Scott Fenney tucked his daughter into bed and kissed her good night, she would smile up at him and say, “See, A. Scott, there are happy endings in real life.”