The Color of Law

TWENTY-SIX

Scott parked the Jetta in an open lot two blocks down from the federal building. There was no shade to be found, so he lowered the windows an inch hoping the inside temperature wouldn’t rise high enough to melt the dashboard, then he climbed out. The girls followed him, both wearing the best outfits Rebecca had purchased for Boo at Neiman Marcus. Pajamae had on a white sundress with black polka dots and a wide-brimmed white hat; Boo wore a light blue sundress with a matching hat. They looked like two little Southern belles-except for the cornrows.

Scott pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket, removed his glasses, and wiped away the sweat already accumulating on his forehead. He then replaced his glasses, put on his coat, locked the car, and picked up his briefcase. He paid the attendant ten dollars for all-day parking, and then they walked up the street. Scott felt like he always did right before a game, his body alive with nervous energy, particularly when the opponents he would soon face were bigger, stronger, and meaner.

He looked down at the two little girls walking in front of him. Boo was the love of his life and Pajamae had become like a second daughter to him. They were excited, as if they were going to the zoo instead of a murder trial, chatting and giggling-until they turned the corner onto Commerce Street.

Then all three of them froze. Hundreds of people were gathered at the front entrance to the federal building: local, network, and cable TV vans lined the street, their satellite dishes and camera crews ready to capture and transmit breaking news; several dozen police were keeping the peace. It was the media circus Buford had promised.

“A. Scott, who are all those people waiting for?” Boo asked.

“Me.”

He pulled the girls close and forged ahead. When they were spotted, the cameras and reporters came rushing forward like the kicking team rushing downfield to tackle number 22 returning the opening kickoff. Scott would rather have faced those foaming-at-the-mouth football players than these crazed reporters wanting a sound bite for the evening news. They stuck microphones in his face and shouted from a foot away:

“Is Shawanda claiming self-defense?”

“Will other women testify that Clark raped them?”

“Are you gonna call the senator to testify?”

To all of which Scott answered, “No comment,” and pushed ahead. But then they went after Pajamae, sticking microphones in her face and shouting at her:

“Do you think your mother killed Clark?”

“Where will you live if she’s convicted?”

“Do you still love your mother?”

Scott got mad. He shoved the microphones and cameras away.

“Leave her alone!”

But Pajamae had stopped dead in her tracks. Her head was tilted up at the last reporter, an odd expression on her face, and she said in the softest voice: “Of course, I love my mama.”

Her words struck the reporters silent. A little black girl had embarrassed the media circus into submission. The crowd parted and allowed Scott and his two little girls free passage into the courthouse.

They got off the elevator on the fifteenth floor and walked down the hall and around the corner to Judge Buford’s courtroom, where Delroy Lund was sitting on a bench, reading the sports pages. They hadn’t seen each other since that day at the Village, but Delroy only glanced up at Scott and then back at the newspaper, without comment or expression. Per his subpoena, Delroy was legally obligated to sit outside the courtroom for the duration of the trial, waiting to be called inside to testify.

Scott pulled the big double doors open and escorted the girls into the courtroom, up the center aisle to the front row, and as he was pointing out where they should sit, he glanced back at the second row and found himself staring at United States Senator Mack McCall and his wife. And they stared back. Scott thought he noticed the senator’s right arm come up slightly, as if he were going to reach over and shake Scott’s hand, a politician’s habit, but the senator pulled back. Scott’s eyes fell on Jean McCall; she looked straight into his eyes and her eyebrows rose slightly, as if asking a silent question, then she recrossed her legs, left over right. The movement drew Scott’s eyes down to her short skirt, and she looked away, but ran her hand down the length of her smooth thigh. Scott was turning his head back to the girls when he noticed Dan Ford. His former senior partner, mentor, and father figure was sitting next to Jean McCall with a grim expression. Dan broke eye contact with Scott and looked down, slowly shaking his head.

Scott got the girls settled in on the jury side of the spectator section. He wanted the jurors to see the defendant’s daughter and think, How could the same person be a loving mother and a cold-blooded murderer?

“Oh, that’s a nice touch.”

Ray Burns’s smart-ass voice. Scott turned to his adversary, but Ray just shook his head and walked to the prosecution table. Bobby and Karen were already seated at the defendant’s table.

“Clark McCall was lying on the floor of his bedroom, writhing in pain after being kneed in the groin, when the defendant, Shawanda Jones, walked over to him, grabbed his hair, yanked him up, stuck the barrel of her. 22-caliber pistol to his forehead, and pulled the trigger, killing him instantly. Then she stole his money and his car. Shawanda Jones murdered Clark McCall, a federal official, during the commission of a robbery. That is what the evidence will show. And that is why I will ask you to return a verdict of guilty and a sentence of death.”

Assistant United States Attorney Ray Burns turned away from the jury, walked from the podium back to the prosecution table, and winked at Scott, knowing that he had just made a very effective opening statement, telling the jury exactly what he would prove and knowing he could back up his words.

“Mr. Fenney,” Judge Buford said.

Scott stood and glanced at the spectator section crowded with gawkers gathered to witness a trial the likes of which Dallas had never seen. At the back of the courtroom were the groupies, old men who came to the courthouse each day like other old men went to the golf course. Next up were several rows of the general public who had lined up outside before daybreak to get a seat. Then came five rows of reporters taking notes and courtroom artists sketching portraits. Then came an assortment of lawyers and state court judges who viewed the trial as continuing legal education. And finally there were Senator McCall and his wife, McCall staring holes in Scott’s skull, Jean just staring, and Dan Ford shaking his head. Directly in front of them, Boo and Pajamae sat like two little prim and proper Highland Park girls, knees together, hands in their laps. He looked at Boo and she smiled and gave him an emphatic thumbs-up. He wished he shared her confidence. He walked over to the podium and faced the jury. He would not dispute the government’s evidence. He would only dispute the government’s conclusions.

“Shawanda Jones is a prostitute and a heroin addict. She’s not present this morning because she’s sick; she’s suffering withdrawal. Judge Buford permitted me to make you aware of her illness so you would not hold her absence against her. If you remember, at jury selection, I asked only one thing from each of you, and that was to give Shawanda a fair shake.”

There was a time, not that long ago, when a black defendant could not get a fair shake in a Southern courtroom; when a complete stranger could walk in off the sidewalk and, without knowing anything about a case, instantly pick out the defendant, the only black person in the courtroom; when a jury of a black defendant’s “peers” would be white men. But the times had changed and so had the law. Scott now looked into the eyes of the black and brown and white men and women sitting in the jury box-the teacher, the mechanic, the nurse, the bartender, and the others-and wondered if they could be fair.

“You hold her life in your hands. Listen carefully. Think for yourself. Be fair.”

Dallas Police Officer Eddie Castille swore to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God” and sat in the witness stand. Castille was in his midtwenties, Hispanic, a young cop eager to please, and still under the impression that he could make a difference on the streets of Dallas. He was the prosecution’s first witness. Ray Burns addressed him from the podium.

“Officer Castille, what is your position with the Dallas Police Department?”

“Patrol officer.”

“Were you patrolling the Harry Hines vicinity of Dallas on the afternoon of Sunday, June sixth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And during that patrol did you come upon an abandoned Mercedes-Benz?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please tell the jury what you did next.”

“I saw the vehicle parked on a side street and pulled up to it. We don’t generally see cars like that in the Harry Hines area, except at the strip joints. The vehicle was unoccupied, so I ran the plates. Dispatch came back, said it hadn’t been reported stolen, said it was registered to a Mack McCall.”

“As in Senator Mack McCall?”

“Yes, sir, that’s what dispatch said, but I didn’t know who that was.”

That brought light laughter from the courtroom and a self-deprecating shrug from the senator.

“And then what did you do?”

“The registration address was in Highland Park, so the duty sergeant said he would call Highland Park PD and have them go over to the residence.”

“And did that end your involvement with this case?”

“Yes, sir, other than waiting for the car to be towed to impound.”

“And what time was this?”

“Approximately one P.M.”

“Thank you, Officer Castille. No further questions.”

Judge Buford turned to Scott, who said, “No questions, Your Honor.”

“Mama, you okay?”

Instead of going out each day for lunch, the defense team had decided to eat lunch with the defendant. So they were now in the small bare conference room, eating the ham and cheese sandwiches the girls had made that morning. Scott pulled his coat off the chair back and wrapped it around Shawanda’s shoulders. His client was having chills again.

“Yeah, baby.”

“Why can’t you have your medicine?”

“Don’t know.”

“Mama, the jury people keep looking over at me.”

“That ’cause you so pretty.” She warmed and she said, “How the trial going, Mr. Fenney?”

“Nothing much this morning, Shawanda.”

“Mama, that Mr. Burns, he’s a little prick. He stood right up there and lied to those jury people. He told them you killed that McCall boy, just like he meant it.”

“He did, baby.”

After the lunch break, Ray Burns, the little prick, called Sergeant Roland James of the Highland Park Police Department as the prosecution’s second witness. Sergeant James was one of those middle-aged cops who had long ago made his peace with the fact that he wasn’t going to make a difference, so he would just ride out his shift until his pension kicked in. He testified that he had been on duty on the afternoon of Sunday, June 6, and had taken the call from the Dallas PD regarding the McCall Mercedes-Benz. He had arrived at the McCall estate at one-thirty P.M.

“Sergeant James,” Ray Burns said, “when you arrived at the McCall residence, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“No, sir-except that the front gates were open.”

“What did you do?”

“I drove in, went up to the front door, and rang the doorbell several times. No one answered. I tried the door, but it was locked. So I walked around to the back of the house and found the back door open. I stepped inside the residence and called out, but no one answered.”

“What did you do then?”

“I commenced searching the residence, the ground floor first. Nothing was disturbed, and I found no one. I walked up the stairs to the second floor, started on the west wing. I found the body in a bedroom in the east wing.”

“What body was that?”

“White male, naked, gunshot wound to the head, lying on white carpet soaked in blood.”

“Was the body that of Clark McCall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew that from having met Clark McCall on a prior occasion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you check the body for vital signs?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“From the appearance of the body, there was no question that the victim was dead and had been for some time. I didn’t want to contaminate the evidence.”

“And was that in accordance with your police training?”

“Uh, well, no, sir. That was in accordance with O.J.’s trial. They accused those L.A. cops of contaminating the evidence. I wasn’t going there.”

“So what did you do?”

“I stepped out of the room and called headquarters, talked to the chief. He called in the Feds. The FBI.”

“Thank you, Sergeant James. No further questions.”

Scott stood and went to the podium.

“Sergeant James, why did your chief call in the FBI?”

“He figured they had jurisdiction.”

“Over a murder?”

“The victim was a federal official.”

“You knew that at the time, when you were standing in his bedroom door?”

“Well, no, sir, I didn’t know that. I guess the chief did.”

“But you knew who the victim was?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how did you know Clark McCall?”

“Well, Clark McCall, he, uh, he had a history with us.”

“A record?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you been with the Highland Park PD?”

“Twenty-three years this December.”

“And had you ever personally arrested Clark McCall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On how many occasions?”

“Three that I recall.”

“For what?”

“Disturbing the peace.”

“What was he doing?”

“Drinking in public, when he was in high school.”

“Is that all?”

“Drugs.”

“Is that all?”

“One time he was standing naked in the SMU fountain.”

“Was he ever arrested for a sexual crime?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”

“Was a complaint ever filed against Clark McCall alleging a sexual crime?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“So, bottom line, your chief called in the Feds because he knew the victim was the son of Senator McCall?”

“Yes, sir. And because we’d never worked a homicide in Highland Park.”

The next witness for the prosecution was the FBI agent first on the scene, Agent Paul Owen, fifty, ex-military with a soldier’s bearing and haircut.

“Agent Owen,” Ray Burns said, “you arrived at the McCall residence at what time?”

“Approximately two-thirty P.M.”

“And what did you do?”

“I entered the residence, which Highland Park PD had secured, and went upstairs to the crime scene. I observed the victim’s body lying on the floor. I commenced documenting the crime scene, and I called in the Evidence Response Team. They arrived at approximately three P.M.”

“You were in charge of the investigation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you process the crime scene?”

“Yes, sir, we collected the evidence.”

“And what evidence did you collect?”

“We cut out the carpet under and surrounding the body to obtain blood samples. We collected hair next to the body, fingerprints, various pieces of clothing, personal effects, the sheets off the bed, drinking glasses, a. 22-caliber bullet imbedded in the floor, a. 22-caliber pistol, and the body.”

“And what did you do with this evidence?”

“The body went to the Dallas County medical examiner. The rest of the evidence went to the FBI lab at Quantico, Virginia, for analysis.”

“Did you conduct a luminol test to locate blood elsewhere in the room?”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

“And did you find blood elsewhere?”

“No, sir.”

“So the victim died where he was found?”

“Yes, sir. The body had not been moved.”

“Did you immediately run a check on the fingerprints?”

“Yes, sir, we did that in Dallas.”

“And did you get a match?”

“Yes, sir. The fingerprints on one of the drinking glasses and the pistol belonged to the defendant.”

“Shawanda Jones?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you do then?”

“We obtained an arrest warrant for Shawanda Jones.”

“Did you make the arrest?”

“No, sir. I sent Agent Edwards.”

“What did you do next?”

“I called next of kin.”

“Senator McCall?”

“Yes, sir. I informed the senator that his son had been murdered in their residence.”

“And what did Senator McCall say?”

“He asked how his son had been killed.”

“And did you tell him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Back to the crime scene, Agent Owen. Were photographs taken of the crime scene?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ray Burns stepped over to Scott and handed him the four photographs he would show the jury. The crime scene photos had been the subject of heated pretrial arguments over their prejudicial effect on the jury. Burns wanted to introduce two dozen photos, but the judge had approved only these four, one of which was particularly graphic. Scott handed the photos to Karen, who was sitting next to him. She inhaled sharply. He forgot she hadn’t seen the photos. Which reminded Scott; he twisted in his chair, caught the girls’ attention, and gestured that it was time for them to lower their eyes. He knew the photos were coming and had discussed it with them on the drive over that morning. He told them to stare down at their feet until the photo show was over.

“Agent Owen, would you look at your computer screen and identify the photo being displayed to the jury on the overhead screen?”

Agent Owen turned in the witness chair to view the computer screen. Scott kept an eye on the jury box.

“This is the view of the crime scene from the bedroom door, as I first observed the scene. The bed is directly in front of the door, the bathroom over to the right, and the body over to the left. Only the victim’s legs are visible in this photo.”

“This is an accurate representation of the crime scene?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

The next photo came up on the overhead screen.

“Agent Owen, can you identify this photo?”

“This is a close shot of the bed, evidencing that it had recently been, uh, occupied.”

“And is this an accurate representation of what you saw?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this photo?”

“The bathroom, and it is accurate.”

“And finally, this photo.”

A collective gasp went up in the courtroom. In the jury box, the two housewives averted their eyes, the bartender grimaced, and the car salesman stared. Ray Burns had displayed his climactic photo, a close-up of Clark McCall’s body, his eyes open and vacant, a hole in his forehead, his head in a pool of blood.

“This is a close shot of the victim’s body. He was naked, no wounds evident except about the head. There is apparent swelling around the right eye, some scratch marks on the face, and the entry wound in the left forehead.”

Scott turned to the girls. They were staring down at their feet as instructed, but Pajamae’s hat brim rose slightly; she was peeking. Scott snapped his fingers at her; she looked at him. Her expression said it was too late. She had seen the photo.

Ray allowed the gruesome image to sink into the jurors’ minds before saying, “No more questions.”

For the next thirty minutes, Bobby cross-examined Agent Owen about the toxicology reports, which showed alcohol and cocaine in Clark McCall’s blood, so that the jurors would leave the courtroom that day with something on their mind other than the crime scene photos. After he passed the witness, Judge Buford adjourned for the day. Scott, Bobby, Karen, and the girls returned home; Senator McCall held a press conference on the courthouse steps. The senator spoke with the confidence of a man who knew his words would not be contradicted by Hannah Steele: “Clark was the kind of son every man dreams of having.”

“Now, Scotty, don’t get depressed,” Bobby said through a mouthful of Chinese takeout. “The first day of a criminal trial is always bad. At least he didn’t surprise us with anything.”

“I’m not depressed about the prosecution’s case, Bobby. I’m depressed about our defense. We’ve got nothing!”

They were at their designated places on the kitchen floor and the girls were at theirs.

“Carl’s still working the case.”

“Where the hell is he?”

“Del Rio.”

“What’s he doing down on the border?”

Bobby shrugged. “With Carl, you give him full rein and don’t ask questions. He always finds something.”

“I hope he finds something soon, Bobby, ’cause this isn’t looking good.”

Bobby stuck a little spare rib in his mouth, worked it over, pulled it out clean, and said, “Shit, Scotty, don’t worry about today. Tomorrow’s gonna be a lot worse.”

Boo and Pajamae were already in bed when Scott entered their bedroom to say prayers.

After prayers, Pajamae said, “One night, a man got shot outside our apartment. When the po-lice came, Mama and me, we went outside. The dead man, he had a white sheet over him. I always wondered what he looked like, that dead man. Now I know.”

“Pajamae, you promised not to look.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fenney, but I had to. They’re saying my mama killed that man. I had to look. But she didn’t do it. You believe her, don’t you, Mr. Fenney?”

Scott looked into her big brown eyes and lied, “Of course I do.”