The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [34]
Scott shook hands with Burns and said, “Scott Fenney, Ford Stevens.”
“I heard Buford tapped private counsel for this case,” Burns said. He turned his palms up and glanced from Scott to Bobby and back. “So, what, you bailing on the defendant?”
“No, I’m not bailing. I’m trying to do the right thing, hiring her a real criminal defense attorney.”
“The right thing?” Burns said with the same smirk, clearly his trademark expression. “Looks an awful lot like bailing to me.”
Ray Burns, Assistant U.S. Asshole, returned to the prosecution table, his right shoulder riding low under the weight of the king-sized chip he was carrying around. Government lawyers always have chips on their shoulders when dealing with big-firm lawyers like Scott because the big firms didn’t hire them out of law school: if you can, you do; if you can’t, you teach; if you can’t teach, you hire on with Uncle Sam.
Bobby leaned in and whispered, “Burns is a dick. Trying to build a conviction record so he can move up to D.C. Asshole’s put a couple of my clients away for life, for possession. Course he called it ‘intent to distribute.’”
A side door opened and a strange black woman appeared in a white jail uniform. Scott stared at the woman for several seconds before realizing that she was Shawanda. She had looked awful yesterday; today she looked like she was dying. The same black guard escorted her into the courtroom, his arm under hers, almost carrying her over to Scott. By the time she arrived, her face was a brown frown.
“Morning, Shawanda.”
Her entire body was trembling, shaking, twitching. Scott almost reached out and embraced her, to warm her like he did Boo when she got a chill after getting out of the pool, but at the last second the thought of his client throwing up on his expensive suit dissuaded him. He eased a step away from her.
“Who’s him, Mr. Fenney?” she said in a weak voice, gesturing at Bobby.
“Bobby Herrin, your lawyer.”
“Thought you my lawyer?”
“Shawanda, I represent corporations, not criminals…I mean, people charged with crimes. I hired you a real criminal defense attorney.”
“All rise!”
The bailiff’s voice boomed out and everyone in the courtroom stood as Judge Samuel Buford entered from a door behind the bench. He was the very image of a federal judge: the white hair, the patrician face, the black reading glasses, and the black robe. He sat behind the bench, which was elevated, as if to emphasize the supreme power of the law. To look him in the eye Scott had to angle his head up about twenty degrees.
“Be seated,” the judge said. He shuffled through papers on his desk and glanced up over his glasses, first at Ray Burns, then at Scott and Shawanda and Bobby. Finally he said, “United States of America versus Shawanda Jones. Detention hearing.”
He looked at Shawanda again.
“Ms. Jones, are you okay?”
He was a father asking his young daughter if she was hurt after falling off her bicycle. Shawanda nodded and the judge then turned to the lawyers.
“Gentlemen, please make your appearances.”
Burns said, “Ray Burns, Assistant U.S. Attorney, for the government.”
Then Scott said, “A. Scott Fenney, Ford Stevens, for the defendant. If I may, Your Honor, my firm has retained Robert Herrin, Esquire, to assume representation of the defendant. Mr. Herrin is a well-respected criminal defense attorney in Dallas. He possesses much more experience than I in criminal matters and will be able to provide the defendant a more competent defense. With the court’s permission, I ask to withdraw from representation of the defendant and for Mr. Herrin to be substituted in my place.”
The judge was eyeing Scott over his reading glasses; a wry smile crossed his face.
“Didn’t really want to be another Atticus Finch after all, huh, Mr. Fenney?”
Scott knew better than to respond. The judge’s smile dissolved into a look of disappointment that, for some odd reason, bothered Scott. The judge sighed and dropped his eyes. He started writing on what Scott knew was the case docket, officially substituting Robert Herrin,