The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [30]
Scotty did not respond immediately, so Bobby raised his eyes, expecting to see a haughty smirk; instead, he saw a hint of real concern on his old friend’s face. Scotty and Bobby had been inseparable in college and law school: they had lived together, studied together, got drunk together, chased girls together (Bobby got Scotty’s hand-me-downs), and played hoops and golf together. They were like brothers, right up until the day Scotty hired on with Ford Stevens at a starting salary of $100,000. They had not spoken since.
“Things haven’t gone well?” Scotty asked.
“Clients you get from ads in the TV guide don’t pay so well.” Bobby shrugged and tried to smile. “Hey, life just didn’t work out.”
Scotty straightened in his chair. “Well, Bobby, let’s have lunch and talk about that.”
Scotty stuck a finger in the air and a waiter appeared instantly. Bobby was scanning a menu with entrées that cost more than his suit when he heard a thick Latino accent: “Mr. Herrin?”
He looked up at the waiter, a young Hispanic man, well groomed with erect posture. His face seemed vaguely familiar.
“Mr. Herrin, it’s Carlos. Carlos Hernandez? Remember me, last year? You was my lawyer? Possession with intent to distribute?”
So many of Bobby’s clients looked so much alike—young males, brown or black—and were charged with the same crimes—possession of a controlled substance, possession with intent to distribute, conspiracy to distribute; they were just two-bit users caught in the cross fire of the war against drugs. Sometimes he could remember a particular client by his tattoos—he vividly recalled a client named Hector (conspiracy to distribute) because his entire upper body was one big tattoo, a mural in honor of the Virgin Mary—but since Carlos here was clothed from his neck to his toes, Bobby could not remember Carlos from Jorge or Ricardo or Lupe. Still, he said, “Oh, yeah, Carlos. How you doing, man? You staying clean?”
A big grin from Carlos and a bigger lie, “Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Herrin.”
They never stay clean. “Good man.”
Scotty ordered salmon, Bobby a T-bone. As Carlos walked off, Bobby gestured after him. “My best client.”
“You do a lot of criminal defense work?”
Bobby nodded. “I represent the petty criminal class. Guys like Carlos, they don’t need estate plans.”
“Federal court?”
“Yeah, since they federalized all the drug crimes.”
Carlos soon returned with their food, and they ate and talked and laughed about the old days, old friends, good times, and their families. Scotty didn’t know Bobby had been married and divorced twice; Bobby didn’t know Scotty’s mother had died or that he had a daughter. And for a brief moment it was eleven years ago and they were still best friends. But Bobby knew he was just Cinderella at the ball with the Prince of Dallas, and the fancy lunch at the fancy club would soon be over and he’d be back in his crappy office in East Dallas living his shitty life again representing clients like Carlos.
So when he finished his steak, he pushed his plate aside and said: “Scotty, I appreciate the lunch, man. It’s been fun, catching up and all. But I know you didn’t invite me up here just to catch up, not after all these years. What’s up?”
Scotty glanced around, leaned in, and in a lowered voice said, “Buford appointed me to represent the hooker who murdered Clark McCall.”
Bobby almost spit out his iced tea. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“Nope.”
Bobby Herrin might not be the brightest bulb in the box, but it didn’t take him long to figure out this game: Scotty Fenney was giving him another hand-me-down.
“You want to hire her out?”
Scotty nodded. “Here’s the deal. I met with the defendant this morning, Shawanda Jones, black girl, hooker, heroin addict—Christ, she damn near puked on my suit! Says she didn’t kill him, but that’s bullshit—her gun was the murder weapon. Says McCall picked her up on Harry Hines, offered her a thousand bucks for the night, took her home, started slapping her around,