The Color of Law

FOURTEEN

Execution of the defendant would violate her civil rights under the Eighth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States…

The defendant. Her mother. Execution. Damn.

Pajamae was playing in the pool with Boo; they were standing in opposite shallow ends and tossing a Frisbee back and forth across the deep middle part of the pool. Scott was sitting on the patio reading Bobby’s brief that argued Pajamae’s mother should not be put to death if found guilty of murdering Clark McCall.

It was another blazingly hot Sunday afternoon in Highland Park. The girls were cool in the pool. Scott was sweating in the shade of the patio awning. Rebecca was down in the exercise room climbing the Stairmaster to nowhere in air-conditioned comfort. Consuela was in Little Mexico being courted by Esteban Garcia. Scott had driven her down that morning to the Cathedral Santuario de Guadalupe Catholic Church located at the northern boundary of downtown Dallas, which was also the southern boundary of Little Mexico. Esteban was waiting at the curb, dressed in black boots, black trousers, and a long-sleeve white shirt starched crisp; he was clean shaven and his hair was slicked back. He looked like a Mexican matador. He greeted Consuela de la Rosa like a princess, taking her hand to help her up and out of the low-slung Ferrari. She turned and waved good-bye to Scott, then walked to the entrance of the church like a teenager in love. She was brown and beaming.

Scott was white and worried.

Scott, I need an answer for McCall. Now.

What if he said no to McCall? What could Mack McCall do to Scott Fenney, Tom Dibrell’s lawyer? McCall might be the senior senator from Texas and Dan Ford’s former fraternity brother, but he paid no legal fees to Ford Stevens. So saying no to McCall would not harm the firm; of course, it wouldn’t help the firm either. But still, no harm, no foul. Sure, McCall could block A. Scott Fenney’s future nomination to the federal bench, but that did not concern Scott; he had no intention of taking a pay cut to only $162,000 a year. Saying no to McCall would result only in a pissed-off U.S. senator; Scott could live with that.

But could he live with a pissed-off senior partner?

How would Dan Ford take no for an answer? Saying no to Dan would be breaking new ground for Scott; he had never said no to Dan, never even considered saying no. Now Dan wanted to be the president’s lawyer, which required that Mack McCall be elected president, which required that Scott Fenney hide Clark McCall’s past, which required that Scott say yes.

Dan would not be happy if Scott said no.

But Scott brought in over $3 million in fees for the firm each year, and that always had a way of brightening Dan’s mood. And if Scott promised to increase his billings to Dibrell to $4 million this year- which would require some seriously creative accounting — surely Dan would forgive Scott (who was like a son to him) this one act of rebellion. Surely.

Still, Scott Fenney had never said no to a coach, a client, or his senior partner. If the coach called an end sweep on third and 20, he ran it. If a client wanted him to coerce a sexual harassment settlement by threatening to bring up the woman’s sexual history, he threatened it. If a senior partner wanted him to rubber-stamp a decision to fire a fellow partner, he did it. But now a U.S. senator and his senior partner wanted him to hide critical evidence and watch his client be executed. Could he do it?

What if he did? What if Scott Fenney said yes to Mack McCall and Dan Ford? Both men would be very happy. McCall would be elected president, Ford Stevens would be the president’s law firm, and Dan Ford would be the president’s lawyer. The firm would open a Washington office, new corporate clients would pay millions in legal fees to the firm, and the partners would double their income. Scott Fenney would be filthy rich. All of which sounded good until he heard Pajamae’s little voice: “Catch it, Boo!”

Mr. Fenney, are the po-lice gonna kill my mama, too?

Scott heard the French doors behind him swing open and felt the rush of cool air against his warm neck. Rebecca stood beside him and he smelled her sweaty scent. She was wearing a tube top and short running tights that clung to every surface of her lean body. Scott felt the urge to pull his wife onto his lap and hold her close; but like a dog who had gotten smacked the last hundred times he had gone after a bone, Scott did not make a move in that direction. They watched the girls play.

“It’s good she has a friend now,” he said.

“She has friends,” Rebecca said, “girls from the best families in Highland Park. She just refuses to do anything with them.”

“Then they’re not her friends, Rebecca.”

They watched in silence again. After a moment, Rebecca said, “A black girl for her best friend. That’ll be such a positive on her debutante application.”

She abruptly pivoted and went back inside. Scott shook his head. Her debutante application. Barbara Boo Fenney would never be a Highland Park deb; she just wasn’t the right type. Neither would Pajamae Jones; she just wasn’t the right color. She had been born on the wrong side of life, just as Scott had been, but she could not run with a football to the right side of life as he had. Maybe that was why Scott felt a bond with this little black girl, because they were both from the poor side of the tracks; or maybe because Scott had always taken up for the weak kids, like Bobby. Back in high school, Bobby would’ve been beaten up daily if he hadn’t been under Scott’s protection.

Pajamae Jones was now under Scott Fenney’s protection.

She threw the Frisbee over Boo’s head. Boo retrieved it and flung it from far across the yard. The Frisbee landed in the middle of the pool, in the deep section. Pajamae climbed out of the shallow end and walked around to the far side where the Frisbee floated on the water. She knelt down and reached out for it, just out of her grasp. She leaned farther over the pool and before she fell in and sunk below the surface of the blue water, Scott had already dropped the brief and was running toward the pool.

Boo screamed, “She can’t swim!”

“Stay there, Boo!”

Scott dove into the pool, not even thinking that he was still wearing sneakers and shorts. He went straight to the bottom and grabbed Pajamae around her waist. He pushed hard with his legs; they broke the surface with a splash. Pajamae was coughing up water. Scott lifted her out of the pool and onto the deck, then climbed out and knelt beside her. She rolled over and heaved more water. She slowly sat up.

“Are you okay, baby?”

Pajamae looked up at Scott. “I thought I was gonna die, Mr. Fenney.”

“Not on my watch.”

She wiped her nose and leaned into Scott. She buried her face in his wet shirt and wrapped her arms around him. He patted her back.

“Girl, you’re getting swimming lessons.”