The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [112]
Scott Fenney stood in the doorway, wearing only running shorts and drenched in sweat.
“Judge, I’m ready to be her lawyer.”
Sam Buford damn near got out of his chair and walked over to embrace the young lawyer, but that would probably violate some rule of judicial ethics, so he reined in his emotions.
“All right, son. Her life is in your hands. I hope you’re man enough to handle that responsibility.”
“I am. And, Judge, I’ll make her proud. My mother.”
Scott Fenney turned and walked out the door. Helen stepped into his place, dictation pad in hand.
“Ready, Judge?”
Buford waved her away. “Go back to your desk, Helen. I’ve got judging to tend to.” Helen turned away. “Oh, Helen, wait.” She turned back. “Get me Bob Harris on the phone.”
“Bob Harris?”
“He’s the INS regional director.” Buford leaned back and smiled. “My mama always said, one good deed deserves another.”
TWENTY-THREE
ON SATURDAY the circus came to town.
Men and women, boys and girls, young and old, the wealthy residents of Highland Park came in droves. They parked on the side of the street, without the benefit of valets. They braved the 110-degree pressure cooker of a day and walked a block or more up the sidewalk to 4000 Beverly Drive. They had come to see something that only happened in other parts of Dallas County, in those neighborhoods into which they did not venture.
A yard sale.
But this was not a yard sale offering used toasters, beat-up couches, hand-me-down clothes, and an assortment of toys, baby strollers, car seats, and golf clubs. No, this yard sale boasted a walnut sideboard by Francesco Molon, a mahogany bookcase by Bevan Funnell, a pecan armoire by Guy Chaddock, a leather chair by Ralph Lauren, and a billiard table by Brunswick. It promised an assortment of sofas and tables and lamps and bedroom suites and Oriental rugs, an eclectic mix of furnishings with only two things in common: the former lady of the house once fancied them, and they were terribly expensive. It offered designer clothes, footwear, and accessories for women—dresses by Rickie Freeman and Luca Luca, handbags by Louis Vuitton and Bottega Veneta, shoes by Dior, Donna Karan, Marc Jacobs, and of course Jimmy Choo, shirts by Anne Fontaine, and silk scarves by Hermès. And there were girls’ clothes by Jacadi Paris. In all, over $500,000 worth of pricey personal possessions were on sale. And while Highland Parkers might joke about white trash and minorities engaging in curb shopping and Dumpster diving, a bargain purchase is a basic human desire that transcends race, color, creed, national origin, political affiliation, or socioeconomic position.
So they came.
They came up the brick-paved driveway and arrived at the rear motor court and backyard and four-car garage where the Fenney family possessions were on display and for sale. For cash. Pajamae told Scott you don’t take checks or credit cards at yard sales.
At dinner a week before, Boo had asked Scott what they were going to do with all of their stuff. They had enough things to fill the little house by SMU five times over. Scott said he didn’t know, but Pajamae said she did: “Have a yard sale, Mr. Fenney.” Pajamae had volunteered to run it because of her prior experience as a customer at numerous South Dallas yard sales. So the day of the event Scott was sitting at a makeshift checkout counter at the entrance to the motor court and taking cash from buyers while Pajamae and Boo made the sales.
“Two hundred,” said the old lady in the sun hat who had introduced herself as Mrs. Jacobs.
“Now, Miz Jacobs,” Pajamae said, “Miz Fenney, she paid two thousand dollars for that couch, and you want to buy it for two hundred? We priced it at seven hundred but”—she glanced around and lowered her voice—“long as you don’t tell Mr. Fenney, I’ll let you have it for six.”
“I’ll take it.”
With her Sharpie, Pajamae wrote “SOLD” and “JACOBS” on the tag and changed the price to $600. She pointed at Mr. Fenney.
“Pay the man.”
Mrs. Jacobs walked toward Mr. Fenney.
“Yoo-hoo, little colored girl!”
An old biddy was waving at Pajamae