The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [45]
“My daddy, he was white,” Pajamae said.
He glanced over at the girl in the passenger’s seat. She was a cute kid with facial features that were more white than black. Her hair was done in neat rows braided lengthwise and snug to her scalp with long braids hanging to her narrow shoulders; she was wearing a pink T-shirt, jean shorts, pink socks folded down, and white Nike sneakers. Other than her light brown skin, she was no different from all the little girls Scott had seen in Highland Park—except for the cornrows.
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. He hurt my mama.”
“How did he die?”
“Po-lice shot him. He was dealing.”
She ran her finger lightly over the dash, as if checking for dust, and then she turned to Scott.
“Mr. Fenney, did my mama kill that white man?”
“No, baby, I ain’t killed no one,” Shawanda said through the glass partition, her right palm plastered to her side of the window and matched by Pajamae’s left palm on the other side. Both mother and daughter were crying and aching to hold each other. When Shawanda had said she had a child, Scott had naturally assumed she was a lousy mother—she was a prostitute, for God’s sake. But seeing them together now, it occurred to him that this woman loved her daughter as much as he loved his. He turned to the black guard.
“Can’t they be together?”
The guard’s eyes dropped; he scratched his chin. When his eyes came back up, he said, “You here to discuss her defense?”
Scott caught on quickly. “Yes.”
The guard gestured at Pajamae. “She a material witness?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
The guard led them to the small room where Scott and Shawanda always met. He patted Scott down, but he only patted the top of Pajamae’s head. When he brought Shawanda in, she dropped to her knees and embraced Pajamae for the longest time. The guard said he’d wait outside. Shawanda finally released Pajamae, then cupped her daughter’s face and just stared at her, as if examining every inch of her smooth face. Then she held Pajamae at arm’s length and looked her up and down.
“You dress yourself real nice,” Shawanda said. “Louis bringing you groceries, watching out for you?”
Pajamae nodded. “Yes, Mama.”
“You staying inside?”
Another nod. “Yes, Mama.”
Shawanda appeared in much better health than the last time Scott had seen her, more alert, making Scott less worried she might puke on his suit.
“You sleeping now?” Scott asked.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Fenney. I’m over the worst part, except the headaches.”
“I brought your medicine, Mama,” Pajamae said.
“Good girl.”
“I always take Tylenol for headaches,” Scott said.
“I need something stronger.”
“Ibuprofen?”
“Yeah, Ibu…that.”
“When are you getting out, Mama?”
“I ain’t, not till after the trial. If Mr. Fenney here prove me innocent.”
Scott said, “No, Shawanda, I don’t have to prove you’re innocent. The government’s got to prove you’re guilty.”
Shawanda looked at him like an adult at a naïve child.
“Mr. Fenney, you got a lot to learn.”
“When’s the trial?” Pajamae asked.
“End of August,” Scott said.
Pajamae made a face. “But that’s two months from now! What am I supposed to do for that long? Mama, I’m scared to be alone in the projects!”
And the fear Scott Fenney had experienced less than an hour earlier returned with a vengeance. Sweat broke out on his forehead again. His heart beat faster again. His mind played out his odds of survival again, a fat little rabbit chased by a pack of wolves. He did not want to go back into South Dallas, not today, not ever. He did not want to take this little black girl back to her apartment in the projects and get out of the Ferrari and walk her to the door through a gauntlet of strong young black males looking upon him as prey. What if Louis weren’t there to chaperone? But he couldn’t very well put a little girl on a public bus or in a taxi alone. What the hell could he do with her? While mother and daughter embraced and shared tears, Scott’s agile mind worked through all the available options until it arrived at an answer: Consuela de