The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [141]
“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”
“Yes, Mr. Fenney.”
Scott walked around the defendant’s table and toward the witness stand, and at the last moment, stumbled on an imaginary obstacle, tossing the document to the floor next to the witness stand. As Scott righted himself, Agent Hu, courteous as always, got out of the chair, took two steps, leaned over and picked up the document. Standing no more than two feet from the jury box, Agent Hu held the document out with his right hand.
Scott said, “Agent Hu, are you right-handed?”
Agent Hu realized his silent testimony, that he had picked up the document with his right hand because that was the natural thing to do, what anyone would do, even Clark McCall’s killer. He smiled slightly.
“Yes, I am.”
“No further questions.”
Karen and Bobby were cooking pasta in the kitchen, the girls were taking their baths, and Scott was slumped on the floor, mentally and physically exhausted. Bobby opened the refrigerator, pulled out two beers, walked over to Scott, and held one out to him.
“No matter what happens tomorrow, Scotty, you’ve done right by her.”
“Thanks, Bobby. And just so you know, I did this for Shawanda. Not to get back at Mack McCall or Dan Ford. For her.”
“Thanks for telling me that, Scotty. I needed to know.”
“I know. And thank you, Bobby.”
“For what?”
“For doing this, being part of this, working your tail off even though you’re not getting paid.”
The beer halfway to his mouth, Bobby froze: “I’m not getting paid?”
After prayers, Pajamae opened her eyes and said, “Mr. Fenney, I don’t want that McCall man to be the president.”
Scott smiled. “Me neither.”
“And that Delroy, he’s a bad man, isn’t he, Mr. Fenney?”
Boo said, “He killed Clark?”
“He is and he did.”
“Is he going to jail?”
“I don’t know.” Scott stood. “You girls go to sleep. We’ve got another big day tomorrow, closing arguments, maybe a verdict.”
“Mama might get out tomorrow?”
“She might. But she might not.”
Pajamae thought about that, then said, “Thanks, Mr. Fenney.”
“For what, baby?”
“For caring about my mama.”
Scott removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Pajamae, my life is better now because of your mother. And because of you.”
THIRTY
A SCOTT FENNEY, ESQ., stood before the twelve members of the jury and said: “When I was a boy, my mother used to read her favorite book to me at bedtime, To Kill a Mockingbird. You might’ve read it or seen the movie. It’s the story of a little girl and her father, a lawyer named Atticus Finch. He was an honorable man and an honorable lawyer, unusual even back then, in the 1930s when the story took place.
“Every night my mother would say to me, Scotty, be like Atticus. Be a lawyer. Do good. She even named me after him, Atticus Scott Fenney. Well, my mother’s dead and I’m a lawyer, but I’m no Atticus Finch. I haven’t done much good. I made a lot of money, but I didn’t make my mother proud.
“But that’s another story.
“Or maybe it’s the same story. Because this story, our story, the story playing out in this courtroom, is also about making your mother proud.
“See, in the book, Atticus was appointed to represent a black man named Tom Robinson. Tom was accused of beating and raping a white girl. Atticus showed the jury that the girl had been beaten by a left-handed man because the right side of her face was bruised, but that Tom’s left hand was disabled due to an accident years before. Atticus proved that Tom didn’t do it. And Atticus also showed the jury that the girl’s father was left-handed and a mean drunk to boot. Well, everyone in the courtroom knew that Tom didn’t commit the crime and that her father did. But the jury, twelve white men, convicted Tom Robinson anyway, just because he was a black man.
“Now, that story took place in Alabama in the thirties—in a different time and a different world, back when the color of law was black-and-white. But our story is taking place seventy years later, in Dallas, Texas.