The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [140]
Scott snapped his fingers and pointed at Delroy.
“He threatened to get you fired. He was gonna tell Daddy and get you fired. Now, maybe he could, maybe he couldn’t, but you couldn’t take the chance. Because what would you do if he did get you fired, go back to the DEA? Not with your record. Your job prospects weren’t exactly bright, were they, Mr. Lund? Hell, if you got fired, your best hope for a job would be as a security guard at Wal-Mart. Delroy Lund, former big-shot DEA agent chasing Mexican drug lords on the border reduced to chasing shoplifters in a parking lot. That was your future without Senator McCall, wasn’t it? And that pissed you off, didn’t it, that little rich boy lying naked there on the floor, threatening your future? That little fuckup!
“Things got out of hand again, didn’t they, Mr. Lund? Clark got in your face just like that Mexican boy in Del Rio. Rage took over. You wanted desperately to kill Clark McCall. You saw a pistol lying there on the floor. You pulled your handkerchief from your pocket. You wrapped it around the pistol and picked the pistol up with your right hand. You stepped over to Clark. You reached down with your left hand and you grabbed the little fuckup’s hair and yanked his head up. Then you put the gun to his forehead above his left eye. And you pulled the trigger. You killed Clark McCall just like you killed that Mexican boy in Del Rio, didn’t you, Mr. Lund?”
Delroy’s eyes again went to Senator McCall. Scott turned and watched as bodyguard and senator stared at each other for a long moment; then McCall’s eyes dropped. His face sagged and he suddenly looked old, either from the realization that his own bodyguard had murdered his son or that his dream of living in the White House was over for good. Scott returned to Delroy.
“You thought the defendant would be blamed. Her gun, her fingerprints, but you didn’t know one critical fact. You didn’t know she was left-handed. That’s what happened that night. Things got out of hand and you killed Clark McCall. Didn’t you, Mr. Lund?”
Scott paused. All twelve jurors were leaning forward as if bracing against a wind. Judge Buford had turned in his chair and was focused intently on the witness. Ray Burns’s expression said he knew his coveted Washington assignment had just been lost. Bobby and Karen and Shawanda were practically on top of the defendant’s table. Dan Ford’s elbows were resting on the back of the pew in front and his hands were folded, as if praying. Boo and Pajamae were holding hands like finalists in a beauty pageant. The entire courtroom was waiting to hear Delroy Lund confess to killing Clark McCall. Scott decided Delroy needed a little push; he decided to get in Delroy’s face.
He grabbed the crime scene photo of Clark McCall from the defendant’s table and asked the judge for permission to approach the witness. When the judge nodded, Scott walked to the witness stand and dropped the photo in Delroy’s lap under his now downcast eyes. Then he got in Delroy’s face.
“Come on, Delroy, admit it! I know you killed Clark! This jury knows you killed Clark! Even the senator knows you killed Clark!”
Delroy’s face was red and sweaty. His breathing became faster and labored. His blood pressure was rising, causing the veins in his bald head to protrude like blue ropes against his white skin. His meaty hands closed in on the photograph in his lap and crumpled it into a ball, mashing it mightily as if trying to pulverize the memory of Clark McCall into pulp. Scott knew things were about to get out of hand; Delroy’s rage would soon take over and he would scream: Yeah, I killed Clark! Yeah, I killed that little fuckup!
But when Delroy’s big bald head finally turned up, his eyes were defiant. He said, “Then prove it.”
“The defense rests, Your Honor.”
Ray Burns tried to save his Washington job by calling FBI Agent Henry Hu to the stand again and eliciting somewhat reluctant testimony that a left-handed