The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [133]
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell the jury what happened then.”
Shawanda turned to the jurors and told them the story of that night without shame or guilt, just as a matter of fact. That she and Clark engaged in sex, after, that is, she made him put on a condom—“I can’t get that AIDS. I gotta take care of my Pajamae”—that he became rough, started slapping her, calling her nigger, that she scratched and punched him in the eye and kicked him in his balls, that he fell to the floor, and that she took her thousand dollars and his car keys, drove herself back to Harry Hines, and abandoned the car.
“And Clark McCall was alive the last time you saw him?”
“Yes, sir, he sure was, cussing me like a redheaded stepchild.”
“What did you and Kiki do then?”
“Go home, go to bed.”
“What did you do the next morning, Sunday?”
“Got up, fixed breakfast for Pajamae, go to church.”
“You went to church?”
She had a bemused expression. “Mr. Fenney, without sinners, no need for churches.”
The jurors smiled at that remark.
“And what were you doing when the FBI came to arrest you?”
“Sitting outside on the stoop, watching Pajamae.”
“Did you know why they were arresting you?”
“They say for killing some man. I said, I don’t kill no one. They don’t believe me.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
Ray Burns nearly knocked Scott down, he was in such a hurry to cross-examine Shawanda.
“Ms. Jones, you’re a prostitute, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And a heroin addict?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were with Clark McCall the night he was murdered?”
“That what the police say. I don’t know when he be killed.”
“He picked you up for sex, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He offered you a thousand dollars for the night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got into his car, a Mercedes-Benz, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He drove you to his home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You went upstairs, he gave you alcohol to drink?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He removed his clothes, you removed your clothes, and you and Clark McCall engaged in sexual intercourse, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then you hit him in the eye?”
“Only ’cause he slap me and call me nigger.”
“And you kicked him in the groin?”
“No, sir, I didn’t kick his growing, I kick his balls.”
“Okay, his balls.”
“’Cause he be coming after me again.”
“And then you grabbed your gun and you shot him?”
“No, sir, I didn’t shoot no one.”
“You know your gun was the murder weapon?”
“I don’t know no such thing. You say that.”
Ray Burns picked up the .22-caliber pistol.
“This is your gun, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And why do you carry a gun?”
“You live in the projects, you die of old age waiting for the po-lice to come when someone trying to get in your place.”
“You shot Clark McCall, didn’t you?”
“No, sir. I didn’t shoot no one.”
“And you stole a thousand dollars from him?”
“No, sir. I earned it.”
“And you stole his car?”
“No, sir. I borrowed it, to get back where I belonged.”
“To flee the scene of the crime?”
“To get away before he hit me again.”
“And you went home to your daughter like nothing happened?”
“’Cause nothing happened.”
“Ms. Jones, do you really expect this jury to believe you?”
Shawanda looked at the jurors and said in a soft voice: “No, sir, I don’t expect no one gonna believe me.”
On his way upstairs to tuck the girls in for the night, Scott stopped at the small TV on the kitchen counter where the late news was replaying the day’s events at the trial. An artist’s sketch of Shawanda was on the screen. The reporter said that the defendant was quite beautiful and had comported herself well on the stand. The jurors, he said, were attentive and respectful and, by the end of the day, thoroughly confused by the idea of a killer who was probably right-handed and a defendant who was certainly left-handed. “If Shawanda Jones didn’t kill Clark McCall,” the reporter asked, “who did?”
Upstairs, Scott was leaning over the bed, tucking the girls in, when Pajamae said softly, “Mr. Fenney, I know what my mama does now, with her tricks.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “Mama lets them touch her private parts, put their private parts in hers. That’s what