The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [52]
So after retiring to the master suite, while Rebecca stood naked before the bathroom mirror and removed her makeup and checked her body for early signs of aging, Scott told her about Dan’s visit to his office and Mack McCall’s demands and he asked his wife for advice. She, too, responded without a second thought: “Do it! If Dan says drop it, you damn well better drop it. Are you going to give up everything we have for a goddamn—”
“What, Rebecca? A goddamn what?”
She whirled around, incredibly naked, and said, “A goddamn black whore, that’s what!”
A. Scott Fenney, Esq., had zealously defended his rich clients against all comers—business competitors, the government, famous plaintiffs’ lawyers, and young women claiming sexual harassment. But never against his wife. Of course, he had never had a black whore for a client. Still, his natural lawyerly instinct was to defend his client. So, perhaps because McCall’s demands were still weighing on his mind or because he had never thrown a game in his life or because rich boys like Clark McCall had always graveled his butt or because he knew Louis was not right about Scott Fenney or because of the love Shawanda showed for Pajamae that very morning or because of two little girls with their hair in cornrows on the floor above…or maybe just because this beautiful woman standing naked before him had denied him sex for over seven months…and his heat for her now turned into anger at her—Scott Fenney lashed out at his wife, defending Shawanda Jones with a passion normally reserved for only the richest of clients: “What, she deserves to die just because she’s black and a prostitute? What if you had been born black, Rebecca? Would you still have been Miss SMU and chairwoman of the Cattle Barons’ Ball? Or would you have ended up a hooker on Harry Hines, too?” He pointed to the floor above. “But for the grace of God, Rebecca, Boo could be that little black girl!”
His naked wife laughed without smiling.
“Don’t you get self-righteous with me, Scott Fenney. You wanted money and all the things money can buy as much as I did—this house, that Ferrari…How much did you pay for that suit? I married you because you had ambition, you wanted to be a rich lawyer. You didn’t go to work at the legal aid so you could help poor black people in South Dallas. You went to a big law firm so you could make lots of money working for rich clients living in Highland Park. And now you’re suddenly growing a conscience? I don’t think so.”
She pointed a finger at Scott. “You do this, you ruin my life over a whore—who you know goddamn well is guilty as sin—and I swear to God, we’re through!” She now pointed upward. “And that little girl will be better off without her mother.”
Upstairs on the third floor, Boo and Pajamae were getting ready for bed. A. Scott had read to them, which Pajamae enjoyed. It was fun to have a friend. Boo had insisted they share her room so they could talk. Pajamae agreed. But now Boo was kneeling up in bed and wondering what the heck Pajamae was doing, spreading out a comforter on the floor with a pillow.
“What in the Sam Hill are you doing?”
“Whose hill?”
“It’s just an expression.”
“Oh. Fixing my bed.”
“On the floor?”
Pajamae looked at her bed on the floor, then at Boo in the tall bed. “You sleep in the bed?”
Boo laughed. “Of course, I do. Where do you sleep?”
“On the floor.”
“Oh, you don’t have a real bed?”
“No, I’ve got a bed.”
“Do you have a bad back? Sometimes A. Scott sleeps on the floor when his back acts up, from when he played football.”
“No, I don’t have a bad back.”
“Then why?”
“It’s safer.”
“From what?”
“Gunfire.”
After some discussion, Boo convinced Pajamae that it was safe to sleep in a bed in Highland Park, and they were sleeping side by side an hour later when Scott climbed the stairs, as he did each night before going to bed, to check on his daughter and to kiss her on the forehead. The