The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [43]
“Y’all back off, give the man some room! He’s the lawyer!”
The crowd eased back several steps. Scott exhaled with relief, then inhaled the air, which felt even hotter down here, not a whiff of breeze or a tree in sight to offer shade from the sun, its full force seemingly directed down on him. Beads of sweat popped out of the pores on his forehead like popcorn and his starched shirt stuck to his skin. He glanced around at the gray bunkerlike buildings, the gray dirt yards, the gray concrete landscape, and the black residents, a strange world in the shadows of the downtown skyscrapers. If Scott’s office faced south, his view would be of these projects, hence, the preferred northerly view, toward white Highland Park. Only five miles of pavement separated these projects from Highland Park, but the black kids plastering their faces against the Ferrari’s windows to catch a glimpse of the plush leather interior might as well have been living in China.
“That a fine ride, mister,” one black boy said with a wide grin.
The big man said, “I’m Louis.” He gestured at the crowd. “Don’t mind all them. We don’t get many lawyers down here.”
Louis stood maybe six six and weighed well over three hundred pounds. His huge hands dwarfed Scott’s. So Scott didn’t offer to shake hands; instead he said, “Scott Fenney,” and handed his card to Louis, who examined it intently.
“What the A stand for?”
“Nothing.” Scott pointed a thumb at the Ferrari. “Maybe I should wait in the car.”
Louis said sternly to the boys: “Touch that car, you answering to me.” Then he smiled at Scott and said, “Car be okay, Mr. Fenney.” Louis turned and the crowd parted. Scott followed Louis a few paces up the sidewalk, but Louis abruptly stopped and turned back. “Still, you might wanna lock it.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Scott dug the keys out of his pocket and beeped the Ferrari locked and one of the boys said, “Aw, man!” Scott turned and followed Louis through a gauntlet of shirtless young black men bouncing basketballs so hard against the concrete it sounded like high-powered weapons discharging—boom boom boom. Their torsos were knotty with muscles and glistening with sweat, their sinewy arms etched with barbed-wire tattoos, their expressions sullen. They were wearing long shorts hung low on their hips and those $100 Nikes Scott couldn’t afford as a boy and looking on Scott Fenney as prey, which no doubt he would have been but for the presence of Louis. Scott avoided direct eye contact with them like they say to do with wild animals for fear of inciting them. He wanted to cut and run back to the car and drive full throttle out of here. But he’d never make it to the Ferrari: the image of a pack of wolves pouncing on a fat little rabbit flashed through his mind. So he closed the gap with Louis and followed in the black man’s shadow. And he had to admit to himself, he who had never felt fear on a football field felt it now. Scott Fenney was terrified. By the time they arrived at apartment 110, Scott’s heart was beating against his chest wall like a jackhammer and he had broken a full-body sweat. Louis knocked on the door.
“Pajamae, it’s Louis.”
No answer. Louis knocked again. Still no answer. The front window was covered with thick drapes inside and black burglar bars outside. No light was visible from within the apartment.
“Maybe she’s not home,” Scott said.
Louis’s body shook with a chuckle. “She home all right. She afraid to come outside. Don’t even open the windows even though ain’t no air-condition in there. She ain’t come outside since Shawanda arrested.” He leaned down and lowered his voice and said, “It’s a good thing you doing, Mr. Fenney, taking Pajamae to see her mama.”
Scott’s mind was busy considering his chances of making it back through the gauntlet alive so the words, “Why didn’t you?” were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. But Louis didn