The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [105]
“She took his car.”
“Only to get back to her part of town.”
“She had his skin under her fingernails.”
“She scratched him when he attacked her. She’s not denying she was there.”
“But she’s denying she pulled the trigger, even in self-defense. See, Scott, if she’d come clean about that, maybe we’d be willing to discuss dropping the death penalty.”
“Using the death penalty to coerce a confession—that’s prosecutorial misconduct, Ray.”
Ray shrugged. “We call it prosecutorial discretion, Scott.”
“You’re full of shit, Ray,” Scott said.
“And you’re unemployed.”
“Gentlemen,” Judge Buford said as Scott fought back the urge to punch the Assistant U.S. Attorney. “The death penalty has been well briefed by Mr. Burns for the government and by Mr. Herrin, I presume”—Judge Buford eyed Scott over his reading glasses—“for the defense. We will address that issue if and when it becomes necessary. Anything else?”
“No, sir,” Ray Burns said.
“No, Your Honor,” Scott said.
“Fine. We’ll reconvene on the nineteenth.”
The three lawyers stood to leave, but the judge said, “Scott, may I speak with you alone?” Buford turned to Ray. “If you have no objection, Mr. Burns?”
“No, sir, I have no objection.”
Ray and Bobby exited the chambers and shut the door.
“Sit down, Scott.”
Scott sat. Judge Buford stared at him like a psychiatrist addressing his patient. “You holding up okay?”
Scott lied: “Yes, sir.”
“I’ve read what’s happened. I suppose all of Dallas has. They really deported your maid?”
“Yes, sir. She’s down in Nuevo Laredo, waiting on a green card. I’ve done everything, but the INS says they’re backlogged.”
“Scott, if I had any idea all this would happen, that you’d lose your job, I would’ve never appointed you. I’d expect something like that from McCall, but Dan Ford…” His shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “I don’t know what’s become of the legal profession. When I was practicing, handling a case like this, it meant something. Now it’s to be avoided because it might hurt the firm’s business.”
He looked at Scott with an expression of genuine puzzlement.
“Do lawyers today care about anything except money?”
Scott spoke the truth: “No, sir, not in my experience.”
The judge grunted. “Scott, may I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure, Judge.”
“Your speech, that day at the bar luncheon…did you mean it, what you said about defending the innocent, protecting the poor, fighting for justice?”
Lie or tell the truth? Scott saw in the judge’s eyes the desperate hope that he had meant it, so his first inclination was to do what experienced lawyers do often and well: lie. But the judge needed to hear the truth today. So A. Scott Fenney, Esq., went against fourteen years of legal training and told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“No, sir. Not a word. I said what those lawyers wanted to hear.”
The judge nodded solemnly and said, “I appreciate your honesty, Scott. I’m letting you off the case.” The judge’s eyes dropped to his docket sheet. He began writing. “I’ll substitute Mr. Herrin. He seems capable. He’s certainly written some good briefs.”
Two months ago, Scott would have jumped for joy at the judge’s words. But now he sat stunned and suddenly afraid of losing his last client, even a nonpaying client, because a lawyer without a client is just a man.
“Judge, I know I’m not the lawyer you are, or the lawyer my mother wanted me to be…hell, I’m not even the lawyer I wanted to be. But I’m not a quitter. I never quit in a game, I’ve never quit on anything in my life. I’ll play it out.”
The judge’s eyes came back up, and now he glared at Scott.
“This isn’t a goddamn football game, Scott!”
Scott recoiled at the judge’s harsh voice.
“This case isn’t about you, your life, you proving something to yourself or Dan Ford or Mack McCall! This case is about Shawanda Jones, about her life! She’s the defendant! It’s her right to counsel, goddamnit!”
The judge stood abruptly, stepped to the window, and stared out. After a time,