The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [0]
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE FOR MARK GIMENEZ'S
COPYRIGHT
This book is dedicated to
Frank Gimenez (1926–1990) and Janie Gimenez, my parents.
Jack Hutchison (1931–1998), my father-in-law.
Brigitte, my wife, for reading all those drafts, and Clay and Cole, my sons, for showing me how smart kids are.
Wm. E. (“Bill”) Douglass (1942–1994) and Sheldon Anisman, the two lawyers I have known who most resembled Atticus Finch in honor and manner.
Harper Lee, whose great novel inspired me to become a lawyer and to write this story.
Scout, simply by the nature of the work, every lawyer gets at least one case in his lifetime that affects him personally. This one’s mine, I guess.
—Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to everyone at Doubleday for making this book happen, especially Stacy Creamer, for her brilliant editing and absolute belief in this book; Tracy Zupancis, her assistant; John Fontana, for the perfect book jacket; Ellen Elchlepp, for the great catalog spread; and Maggie Carr, for her excellent copyediting; Liv and Bill Blumer at the Blumer Literary Agency, for their hard work; Barbara Boo Kiesler, for the use of her name; and Tess Edwards and Doug Gimenez, for being there.
PROLOGUE
CLARK MCCALL was thirty years old and the sole heir to his father’s $800 million fortune. He was also a major-league screwup. Or so his father often said, usually right before threatening to cut Clark out of his will. Usually because of nights like this—drinking, drugs, and girls.
It was Saturday night and Clark, drunk on whiskey and wired on cocaine, was trolling for a hooker in his father’s Mercedes-Benz. He had driven south on Harry Hines almost to downtown without luck. There were plenty of working girls; he just hadn’t found the right one. He was now stopped at a light and staring up at the Dallas skyline rising above him: shadowy structures outlined in white and blue and green lights visible for forty miles in the night sky. Looking up like that made him feel a little woozy, so he fumbled for the power switch and lowered his window. He leaned his head out and caught the summer breeze, warm on his face. He inhaled the night air, the sweet scent of sex for sale.
He closed his eyes and might have fallen asleep right there, except a cowboy in the pickup behind him hit his horn like a bugler sounding charge. Which startled Clark. His eyes snapped open—the light had changed. He punched the accelerator and yanked the wheel hard to make a U-turn, but he gave it too much gas and now he couldn’t find the fucking brake pedal so he swung across three lanes and one tire of the Mercedes climbed up onto the curb and he almost clipped a street sign. What the hell was it doing there? The vehicle bounced hard coming back down.
No sooner had Clark gotten the big German sedan traveling mostly in one lane when he spotted her—a nice girl from the black neighborhoods south of downtown out for a slow stroll on a warm night with her girlfriend. She was just the kind he liked—a slim black babe in a blonde wig, a hot pink miniskirt, matching high heels, and a white tube top, swinging her little pink purse back and forth in perfect tempo with the exaggerated side-to-side movement of her round ass. Her body was fit, her legs lean, her entire essence so sensual and seductive that he knew she was the one—a black hooker from South Dallas specializing in white men from North Dallas.
She would be his date this