The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [78]
His hand slowly came up and fell on a piece of paper on the table. She recognized the club’s letterhead. He pushed it her way. She picked it up and read:
Dear Mr. Fenney:
The Membership Committee believes that your continued presence at the club will detract from the collegial social atmosphere of the membership. Therefore your membership has been revoked effective this date. Please do not return to the premises. Your personal belongings will be delivered to your residence, along with your final bill.
“It’s McCall,” he said. “He got me kicked out of the Downtown Club and the athletic club, too. He’s trying to pressure me to drop our defense.”
“Goddamnit, Scott, I told you!” Her arm dropped and the letter floated to the floor. The Scott Fenney ride was coming to an end. The only question now was whether the end would be a soft landing or a fiery crash.
The girls were sitting up in Boo’s bed when Scott picked up the book and sat down in the chair next to the bed. All the strength had drained out of his body. In one day, he had lost his maid and his memberships at the dining club, the athletic club, and the country club. Just the idea of it, that Mack McCall possessed that kind of power, that he could sit in Washington and pull strings in Dallas, make a few phone calls and affect Scott’s perfect life, made Scott realize his relative place in the world. Maybe 193 yards against Texas didn’t make Scott Fenney so special after all.
“You broke your promise,” Boo said, her voice stern, “and now Consuela’s gone.”
Scott had suffered all manner of physical pain, but none compared to the pain he felt now for letting his daughter down.
Scott removed his glasses. “I’m sorry, Boo.”
“Get her back.”
“I’m trying to.” Scott replaced his glasses and opened the book. “Where were we, the Thirteenth Amendment?”
Boo said, “We want to talk about something else.”
Scott shut the book. “Okay. What?”
“What’s a will?”
“A will is a legal declaration evidencing a testamentary intent to dispose of one’s property upon one’s death.”
Boo had a blank expression. “In English,” she said. Pajamae was nodding.
“A will says who gets your stuff when you die.”
The girls glanced at each other and nodded. Boo said, “So who gets your stuff if you die?”
“Your mother.”
“Who gets her stuff if she dies?”
“Me.”
“Who gets your and Mother’s stuff if you both die?”
“You.”
“Who gets me?”
“Oh.”
“My grandparents are dead, I don’t have any uncles or aunts or older brothers or sisters…and now I don’t even have Consuela.”
“Well, first of all, Boo, your mother and I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, so this is all hypothetical.”
“All what?”
“Hypothetical. You know, what if. But don’t worry, your mother and I are going to be here to take care of you.”
Pajamae said, “Mama says all my kin are dead or in prison.”
“So what if?” Boo said.
“What if what?”
“What if you and Mother die?”
“I don’t know, Boo. I guess I haven’t thought much about it.”
Boo held out a handful of one-dollar bills and assorted coins. “We want to hire you as our lawyer, but we’ve only got thirteen dollars between us, so you’ll have to work really fast.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Write us a will that says if Pajamae’s mother dies, we get her and she gets to live with us, and if you and Mother die, her mother gets me and I get to live with them.”
“In the projects?” Scott said before he could catch himself.
“No. I’ll get this house, we’ll live here.”
Both girls were nodding now. And Scott smiled for the first time that day, at the image of Shawanda Jones as the woman of the house at 4000 Beverly Drive in the heart of Highland Park.
SEVENTEEN
MCCALL’S AN ASSHOLE.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
It was nine the next morning, and Scott was slumped on the sofa in Dan Ford’s office. His senior partner was sitting behind his desk, his hands folded, like a priest taking a confession.
“But he’s rich and powerful, Scott, which makes him a very dangerous asshole.”
“He’s your friend.”
“I didn’t say he was my friend. Fact is, I wouldn’t turn my back