The Color of Law

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 on the bastard. But he’s going to be the next president, and we want him to be this firm’s friend.”

“Dan, you tell him I can live without the Downtown Club and the athletic club and the country club-taking my memberships…okay, fine, that’s playing hardball. But taking Consuela, hurting a poor Mexican girl who never hurt a soul in her life…that ain’t hardball, Dan, that’s just plain fucking mean. You tell him he’s a mean son of a bitch to do that.” Scott had awakened that morning itching for a fight. “Matter of fact, why don’t you give me McCall’s number, I’ll tell him myself.”

Dan smiled. “I don’t think so, Scotty.”

“You know, Dan, I was never carried off the field. I took the best shot any team could give me, and I always got up.”

Dan nodded. “You were tough.”

“I’m still tough.” Scott tapped his index finger to the side of his head. “Up here. That’s where real toughness is, in your head. Everyone hurts physically, but the guys who are mentally tough get up off the ground and keep playing. McCall gave me his best shot, and I got up. You tell him that. I’m still playing-and I’m gonna play harder now. You tell him that, too.”

Scott stood and walked to the door but stopped when Dan said, “Scotty?”

“Yeah?”

“How do you know that’s his best shot?”

Five minutes later, Mack McCall was saying to Dan, “The boy don’t break easy.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Dan said.

“Well, he will…or everyone in Dallas is gonna know his wife is screwing the assistant pro at the club.”

“ Trey? Jesus, that boy’s cutting a wide swath through the wives out there. He ought to be paying us. How’d you find out?”

“Delroy’s been snooping.”

“Damn, Mack, hold off on that, see if Scott gets on board. His wife cheating on him…that’s gonna be tough on him.”

“You sound like you care about Fenney.”

“He’s the best young lawyer I’ve ever met…he’s like a son to me.”

“Dan, a son can be a dangerous thing.” The morning mail was waiting for Scott when he returned to his office. But instead of billing a thousand dollars for reading his mail, today’s mail was going to cost him many times that sum: one letter was from the Internal Revenue Service, demanding $75,000 for back nanny taxes, penalties, and interest in the matter of Consuela de la Rosa. And Scott knew Dan’s words had been a warning: Mack McCall was not yet through with Scott Fenney.

Scott sat at his desk and assessed his financial condition. He had $100,000 cash, more or less-actually, $25,000 less since he had sent a check over to Rudy Gutierrez yesterday-in his savings account, which was generating almost nothing in interest income, and another $200,000 in his 401(k) account, all in tech stocks, all under water, all worth half what he paid for them.

He owed $2.8 million on the house, $175,000 on the Ferrari, and another $150,000 on the Mercedes and Range Rover, and $25,000 on credit cards. Three million one hundred fifty thousand in debt. The cars were probably at breakeven, debt to value, and the house was worth maybe a million over the debt, although the high-end housing market in Dallas had slowed recently.

His only income was his monthly partnership draw, $62,500 gross, but only $42,000 after taxes, which disappeared faster than a raindrop on the sidewalk in July: $4,000 in monthly payments on the Ferrari, $3,000 on Rebecca’s Mercedes and the Rover, $16,000 in monthly interest payments on the house note, $10,000 a month in property taxes and insurance premium escrows, and $4,000 a month in utilities and upkeep. Which left only $5,000 a month for groceries, clothes, eating out, entertainment, and club dues-at least he wouldn’t have to pay club dues anymore. He had never worried about saving money; the house was his savings account, retirement account, and rainy-day fund. Of course, he could access those accounts only by selling the place or refinancing the mortgage, which was not a likely option since Dan Ford had called in a personal favor with the bank president to get the $2.8 million loan in the first place.

So Scott wrote a check on his savings account for Seventy-Five Thousand and no/100 Dollars to the “Internal Fucking Revenue Service.” And then he sat back in his chair and wondered what McCall would take next.

From the sofa in Scott’s office, Bobby said, “Seventy-five thousand bucks? Shit, I sell everything I own and pay my debts, I’m still seventy-four thousand shy of that. And you wrote a check?”

Bobby had arrived and Scott had brought him up to date.

“Yeah. But it was all of my cash.”

“You know, Scotty, McCall’s taken this way further than I thought he would. I mean, being pissed off is one thing, but trying to destroy your life, man, he’s into Stephen King territory now.”

“He can’t destroy my life, Bobby. He can take my maid, my memberships, and my cash, but he can’t destroy me. I’ve still got clients that pay me three million dollars a year.”

“Mr. Fenney?”

Sue was standing in the door.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Dibrell called, said he needs to see you ASAP.”

The beautiful blonde Dibrell Property Company receptionist did not inquire about Scott’s marital status today, and Marlene did not smile at Scott. Instead she averted her eyes as he walked past her workstation and into Tom Dibrell’s inner sanctum. From Tom’s pained expression, Scott figured he would have to negotiate sexual harassment settlements with two receptionists this time. And he wondered if he could.

“What’s up, Tom?”

Tom motioned to the sofa. “Sit down, Scott.”

Scott stepped around the coffee table, a long glass top set on a base of horseshoes laid flat and welded together. He plopped down on the soft leather and spread his arms along the top of the back. Attorney and client regarded each other across twenty feet of expensive finish-out.

“We’ve been together a long time, Scott.”

“Eleven years, Tom. As long as I’ve been a lawyer.”

“You’re the best lawyer I’ve ever had, Scott, and I’ve had more than a few.”

“Well, thanks.” He chuckled and smiled. “You know, Tom, back in college when I broke up with a girl, I’d always tell her how beautiful she was first.”

Tom nodded and exhaled. But he didn’t smile.

“We’re breaking up, Scott.”

“What?”

“You’re no longer my lawyer.”

Fear shot Scott up off the sofa and across the void to Tom’s desk. He was now looking down at his rich client, at three million in legal fees, his heartbeat increasing with each second as all the ramifications of losing Tom Dibrell as a client raced through his mind like a runaway locomotive.

“Tom… why?”

“It’s best not to go into it, Scott. It’s done.”

“But…”

“Don’t, Scott.”

Scott felt wobbly and confused, like he’d taken a blow to the head. He turned away from Tom and took several steps toward the door, and he saw something he had never seen before or had never taken the time to see. He blinked hard, his eyes and mind coming into focus simultaneously. On the wall was a framed photograph of Tom Dibrell and Senator Mack McCall at a golf tournament. He turned back to Tom, but pointed at the photo.

“It’s him, isn’t it? McCall. He made you do this.”

Their eyes locked for a long moment, then Tom’s face sagged and he nodded his head like it hurt.

“Scott, you want to know the answer to the mystery?”

“What mystery?”

“Did Oswald act alone?…What the hell mystery you think I’m talking about? How Tom Dibrell survived the real-estate crash and kept his building when everyone else failed and lost theirs.”

Scott nodded.

“McCall. He saved me. The pension fund in New York, the bastards holding the mortgage on this building-which they were trying to foreclose-they wanted legislation passed in Congress, some kind of special tax break on their investments. Mack told them if they foreclosed on me, he’d shit-can their legislation. They dropped the foreclosure. And Mack got me the contracts on the new post office building and the justice center, gave me some cash flow. He saved me, Scott, just because we’re neighbors and I send my gardener over to mow his grass. And he’s never asked me for a goddamned thing…until now. He’s like the Godfather, Scott-when he finally asks you for a favor, you don’t say no. I owe him.”

“What about me? I started working for you when other lawyers dropped you like a load of shit. I’ve been loyal to you for eleven years. Don’t you owe me?”

Tom recoiled and his expression changed from pained to bemused.

“I paid you what I owed you, Scott. In full, every month. As a matter of fact, more than in full. You’ve been overbilling me for years. You think I didn’t know that? Billing me for your law students, training new lawyers on my tab, marking up your cost of copies and faxes and phone calls, charging your hourly rate for our lunches, padding hours-why’d you think I hired all those MBAs from Harvard, for my health? I know where every goddamned penny in this company goes! I figure over the years you’re probably into me for two, three million in overbillings. But that’s what you wanted from me-my fees, not my friendship. So that’s how I paid you back, Scott, in cash. Not in loyalty. I’m loyal to my friends, damn loyal. But you weren’t my friend. You were my lawyer.”

“Yeah, Tom, and as your lawyer I’ve bent some rules for you. I’ve pushed the ethical and legal envelope for you, to make your deals happen!”

Tom held his hands up, as if surrendering. “Whoa, I don’t know nothing about that, Scott. I’m just a dumb ol’ dirt developer. I leave that complicated legal stuff to my real smart lawyer.”

He smiled.

“Not a month ago, Tom, I was standing right here, and you needed me to pull your ass out of a crack again…what was her name, Nadine? I did. You said you’d never forget.”

“I won’t. I’ll never forget that, Scott. But this is business.”

He’s Ross Perot’s lawyer.

He’s Jerry Jones’s lawyer.

He’s Mark Cuban’s lawyer.

He was Tom Dibrell’s lawyer.

A lawyer would much prefer his wife run off with another man than his client run off with another lawyer. A wife’s betrayal makes him question her. But a client’s betrayal makes him question himself; fact is, a client’s betrayal is the only thing that can make a lawyer question himself, what he is and who he is. Because a lawyer without a wife is still a lawyer, but a lawyer without a client is just a man.

A lawyer’s identity is derived from the clients he represents. A lawyer’s power, prestige, influence, wealth, reputation, and standing in the community- what he is and who he is — are determined by the clients he represents. You’re only as good as your clients are rich.

Scott had ridden the elevator up as an important lawyer in Dallas, a lawyer with a rich client; he was Scott Fenney, Tom Dibrell’s lawyer. Now he rode the elevator down as…who? He didn’t recognize the man in the elevator’s mirrored walls.

His first known identity was as Butch’s son. Then, from the time his football skills became apparent, it was as a football player. And for the last eleven years it had been as Tom Dibrell’s lawyer. He had always had an identity. But who was Scott Fenney now? Just another lawyer without a rich client, no better than Bobby, whose best client was a Latino waiter?

For the first time in his life, he didn’t know who he was.

Scott was still in a state of shock when he returned to his office and found Bobby on the sofa and a certified letter on his desk. The name on the envelope-First Dallas Bank-barely registered in his mind. He used the letter opener to slice the top of the envelope with no more thought than if it were junk mail. He removed the letter, four pages of crisp bond paper, and unfolded and smoothed the pages flat on his desk. And he read. And as he did, a slow realization came over him: he was reading his own obituary.

The bank was calling the notes on the house and the cars. He had ten days to pay off $325,000 on the three automobiles and thirty days to pay off $2.8 million on the house. Failure to make timely payment would result in immediate repossession of the cars and foreclosure of the house. Scott Fenney would lose his mansion and the Ferrari.

His perfect life would be gone.

A sense of defeat tried to take hold in his mind, but Scott Fenney had never been defeated, even when he lost. Because when he lost, he did not accept it. Instead, he got mad. As he did now. His respiration accelerated, his jaws clenched, and anger energized his mind and body. He picked up the phone and hit the speed dial for the private number of Ted Sidwell, the bank president. Ted answered on the first ring.

“Ted, Scott Fenney. What the hell’s going on?”

“Demand notes, Scott. And we just made demand.”

“Why?”

“These loans were made to you as a favor, Scott. To get favors, you’ve got to give favors. That’s how the game’s played.”

“I see. McCall. Fine, I’ll refinance with another bank.”

Ted laughed. “In today’s market? And without Tom Dibrell as your client? I don’t think so.”

“News travels fast.”

“I knew before you did.”

“I’ll sell the damn place, it’s worth a million more than the debt.”

“Fire sale in thirty days? You’ll be lucky to get what you owe.”

“I’ll throw it into bankruptcy. I can hold you off for six months, maybe a year.”

“Also not likely. The bank holds a note on Judge Schneider’s home in Highland Park. He’s the bankruptcy judge. And he understands favors.”

Scott had run out of lawyerly rebuttals, so he fell back on the universal football retort: “Fuck you, Ted.”

He slammed the phone down.

Bobby was sitting up. “What was that about?”

Scott realized his face was damp with sweat. “The bank called my notes, on the cars and the house.”

“How can they call your mortgage?”

“Because it’s not a mortgage like you think. You don’t get a thirty-year five percent Fannie Mae mortgage for two-point-eight million, Bobby. You get a demand note callable on thirty days’ notice.”

“ Jesus. Can you refinance?”

“Not likely. I got this note only because Dan used his influence with the bank president, that asshole.”

“Guess who’s influencing the bank president now?”

Scott nodded.

“You could sell the place.”

“Rebecca would die. That house means everything to her.”

“Shit, Scotty, you got three million in fees. You can swing something.”

Scott could barely give voice to the words: “Dibrell just fired me.”

Rebecca said, “If you’re not Tom Dibrell’s lawyer anymore, who am I?”

All the way home, Scott had bucked himself up for this moment; he hoped his performance was more convincing to his wife.

“I don’t need him.”

“No, but you need his three million in fees. Look, Scott, most lawyers’ wives don’t have a clue what their husbands do at the office, but I do. God knows you’ve educated me over the last eleven years. I know how things work in a law firm. And I know that a partner who just lost a three-million-dollar client won’t be a partner for long. And what are we going to do then, Scott? How are we going to pay for this house?”

Scott walked to the windows of the master suite. He could not bear to look at his wife when he said what he had to say.

“Well, that’s the other thing, Rebecca. The house. The bank called the note. I’ve got to pay off two-point-eight million in thirty days or lose it. Unless we sell it first.”

He turned and saw the color drain out of Rebecca’s face and her legs give way; she sat down hard on the bed and stared blankly at the wall in front of her. After a moment, she spoke as if to herself: “Without this house, I’ll never be chairwoman of the Cattle Barons’ Ball.” Her eyes, vacant and lost, turned to Scott. “How will I ever show my face in this town again?”

Scott Fenney felt the sting of his wife’s disappointment. He had let her down, failed her, betrayed her. He had promised her this life, a life in this house, with these things, driving those cars. Now he had broken that promise. For the first time in his life, he felt the pain of failure. And behind the pain, he felt something else, an anger building deep inside him, not the anger of a lawyer at a client who doesn’t pay his bill or a judge who rules against him, but the kind of anger he had previously felt only on a football field, a base anger that had been in man since Adam, an anger that clouded your mind and strengthened your body, that made you say things you shouldn’t say and do things you shouldn’t do, the kind of anger that usually resulted in Scott Fenney being flagged for unsportsmanlike conduct. The kind of anger that meant some son of a bitch was fixing to feel some Scott Fenney payback.