The Color of Law

TWENTY-SEVEN

The next morning Scott and the girls walked unimpeded into the federal building. The reporters did not shout questions. Instead, from a respectful distance the cameras silently recorded the entrance of Shawanda Jones’s lawyer and their daughters, dressed in smart short outfits, color-coordinated from head to toe. Boo, who had steadfastly refused to wear these outfits despite Rebecca’s continuing threats, had meticulously selected their wardrobes; she knew it was important to look good for Pajamae’s mother.

They again walked past Delroy Lund, looking like he hadn’t moved since yesterday, except that he was holding the current day’s sports section. They again entered the courtroom to heads turning their way, as if craning to see a bride’s entrance into the church. They again walked to the front row, where Scott deposited the girls for the morning session. And Scott again exchanged glances with the McCalls and Dan Ford. Apparently his former senior partner wanted to witness his protege’s final defeat.

Scott soon learned that Bobby was right. The second day of the trial was a lot worse than the first day. The prosecution’s first witness was the FBI agent who had made the arrest. Agent Andy Edwards, forty, professional in every way, testified on direct examination by Ray Burns that he had arrested Shawanda Jones at approximately six P.M. on Sunday, June 6, at her apartment in South Dallas; that he had advised her of her Miranda rights; and that his agents had executed a search warrant for her apartment, finding and taking into custody heroin packets, clothing, ten hundred-dollar bills, and a blonde wig.

He further testified that he had taken her to the federal detention center and that she had given a voluntary written statement admitting that she had been with the victim the night of Saturday, June 5, that she had engaged in sex with him at a mansion in Highland Park, that they had fought, that she had hit him, that she had taken the keys to his Mercedes and the thousand dollars he owed her, and that she had abandoned the car on Harry Hines Boulevard.

As Ray Burns left the podium and walked to his table, his eyes met Pajamae’s; she made a face and stuck her tongue out at him. Ray just shook his head, but two jurors, the dental assistant and the teacher, smiled. So far the girls were the best thing the defense had going for it.

Scott stood and began his cross-examination.

“Agent Edwards, what was Ms. Jones doing when you arrived at her apartment?”

“Sitting on the front steps playing with her daughter.”

Scott pointed to Pajamae in the first row.

“Is that her daughter?”

Agent Edwards looked at her and said, “Yes, sir, I believe she is.”

“Did Ms. Jones attempt to run?”

“No, sir.”

“Did she resist in any way?”

“No, sir.”

“Did she exhibit the demeanor of a murderer?”

Ray Burns jumped out of his chair. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

Scott turned to the judge: “Your Honor, Agent Edwards is an experienced FBI agent who has arrested…” He turned back to the witness: “How many murderers have you arrested?”

“Dozens.”

Back to the judge: “Who has arrested dozens of murderers. He knows the demeanor of a murderer.”

“Overruled.”

“Agent Edwards, did Shawanda Jones exhibit the demeanor of a murderer when you arrested her?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you tell her she was being arrested for the murder of Clark McCall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did she say?”

“Who?”

“Ms. Jones.”

“No, sir. That’s what she said. ‘Who?’ I said Clark McCall and she said, ‘Who?’”

“She didn’t know who Clark McCall was?”

“Apparently not.”

“And when Ms. Jones gave her written statement, did she personally write the statement, in her own hand?”

“No, sir. We had a stenographer take it, then type it up. Ms. Jones read it, I read it to her, and she signed it.”

“I notice that in her statement she does not admit to killing Clark McCall. Did you ask her?”

“Yes, sir, I did. She denied it.”

Ray Burns next called FBI Agent Wendell Lee, the crime lab analyst, to testify as to the results of his analysis of the evidence taken from the crime scene. Agent Lee was methodical, like an accountant giving a quarterly report. Burns took him through the FBI procedures for accepting evidence, logging it in, and maintaining an unbroken chain of evidence to prevent mix-ups. Then he got to the specifics.

“Agent Lee, the blood collected from the carpet removed from the crime scene was Clark McCall’s blood?”

“Yes, sir. DNA tests were conclusive.”

“The clump of hair, who did that belong to?”

“Clark McCall. Also confirmed by DNA tests.”

“And what part of his body did that hair originate from?”

“His scalp.” Agent Lee put his hand on his scalp above his right eye. “From this region. It was yanked out by the roots.”

“What about the clothing?”

“We examined a blue polo shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Nothing was found on the clothing.”

“And the bedsheets?”

“No semen was found on the sheets. We did remove a condom from the body with ejaculate present.”

“Did you find anything else on the sheets?”

“Yes, sir, pubic hairs that matched Clark McCall’s and synthetic blonde hair fibers.”

“And did you match these fibers?”

“Yes, sir, we matched them to the blonde wig seized from the defendant’s residence.”

Ray Burns removed the blonde wig from a plastic evidence bag and held it up like a dead skunk.

“This wig, labeled government’s exhibit fifteen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about the fingerprints?”

“Fingerprints were lifted from the drinking glasses, bathroom countertop, the pistol, and the vehicle. All prints matched either Clark McCall or Shawanda Jones. The prints on the murder weapon matched only Shawanda Jones.”

“Were there any unidentified prints?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. Now to the murder weapon. The. 22-caliber bullet retrieved from the bedroom floor-you ran ballistics tests on it?”

“Yes, sir. It was fired by the. 22-caliber pistol found at the crime scene.”

“So the bullet that killed Clark McCall was fired from Shawanda Jones’s gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No further questions.”

Scott walked to the podium. “Agent Lee, the defendant’s clothes were seized during the search of her residence, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was Clark McCall’s blood found on any of the defendant’s clothes?”

“No, sir.”

“Wouldn’t you expect to have found his blood on her clothing if she had shot him at point-blank range?”

“Not if she was naked when she shot him.”

After that disaster, Scott did not cross-examine Dr. Victor Urbina, the Dallas County medical examiner, who testified next as to the cause of death-“gunshot wound to the head”-and the time of death-“approximately ten-thirty P.M., Saturday, June fifth”-and the entry and exit wounds and angle of the bullet’s path through the brain. He figured that cross-examination would only extend the time the evidence was in front of the jury, which couldn’t be favorable to his client.

That day’s picnic lunch featured egg salad sandwiches prepared by Pajamae Jones, wrapped in foil and kept cool in a cooler, along with Vanilla Coke, her favorite. After Scott summarized the morning’s testimony for Shawanda, Pajamae said, “Mama, I stuck my tongue out at Mr. Burns.”

“Pajamae, that ain’t nice.”

“Neither is he. You should hear the things he’s saying about you, Mama. Your ears must be burning!”

“Shawanda,” Scott asked, “are you feeling better? Up to testifying?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

After lunch, FBI Agent Henry Hu, a forensics expert, took the stand. After agreeing with the testimony of Dr. Urbina as to the angle of the bullet’s path through Clark McCall’s brain, Agent Hu, in a long, painstaking, and detailed direct examination, proceeded to offer his expert opinion as to how he believed the murder occurred, according to the forensics evidence and with the help of a graphic exhibit on which was depicted a human figure, halfway between lying down and kneeling up, and standing over him another human figure, holding a gun to the victim’s head. Measurements were noted around the perimeter of the figures, with lines drawn to show various heights and angles and a dark line showing the path of the bullet from the gun, through the skull, and to its impact point in the floor. Dr. Hu pointed to the exhibit with a metal pointer as he testified.

“The victim was in a semi-kneeling position when he was shot. We believe that because, as you can see here, the bullet’s path through the skull must align with the point at which the bullet impacted the floor. The victim was seventy-one inches tall. If he were standing when shot, the twenty-eight-degree downward angle of the bullet’s path through the skull would require that the perpetrator hold the gun overhead and then shoot at a downward angle, a physically difficult act”-Agent Hu demonstrated the difficulty for the jury-“or that the perpetrator be unusually tall.

“So, if the victim were kneeling, the point of entry-his forehead-stands only fifty inches above the floor, still a little high. But if he’s in a semi-kneeling position, as if he were getting up off the floor, with the point of entry approximately forty inches above the floor, which is the approximate height at which a normal-sized person would hold a gun in front of him, like this, give or take several inches”-Agent Hu again demonstrated for the jury-“then the bullet’s path through the skull and the point of impact in the floor align precisely.”

The jurors nodded in agreement with his analysis.

“We also know that the victim’s hair was ripped out by the roots, which requires great force. This leads us to conclude that the murder occurred as follows: the victim was on the floor of the bedroom. The perpetrator grabbed the victim by the hair on the right side of his scalp and yanked him up to approximately forty inches off the floor. The perpetrator placed the barrel of the gun to the victim’s forehead over his left eye and shot the victim. The force of the gun’s discharge knocked the victim to the floor-which is consistent with the location in which the body was found-and extracted his hair from his scalp.”

Clark McCall was a rapist, but he had died a horrible death. By the time Dr. Hu completed his testimony, the jurors were somber. Their sympathies may have been with the little black girl sitting in the front row, but they had to face facts; and the facts pointed to her mother as the murderer of Clark McCall. Ray Burns could barely suppress a grin when he stood and announced, “Your Honor, the prosecution rests.”

Scott noticed that Ray turned and caught Senator McCall’s eye; the senator nodded at Ray, obviously pleased with the prosecution of his son’s killer. No doubt, he had told Ray Burns he would never forget this, particularly if Ray’s name should ever come before the United States Senate for confirmation to a high government office.

Dan Ford caught Scott’s eye; his ex-senior partner’s expression asked a silent question: You gave up your career for a murderer?

Judge Buford adjourned for the day. Shawanda Jones’s defense would begin at nine in the morning. Now all Scott had to do was come up with a defense.

Dinner on the kitchen floor was like a funeral reception.

“Everything Hu said is true,” Bobby said, “except it doesn’t prove Shawanda’s guilt. Problem is, she was in that room with him that night, they fought, and her gun was the murder weapon. So any reasonable person would assume she did it. And without Hannah Steele to back up a claim of self-defense-which is unavailable so long as Shawanda refuses to admit to shooting Clark-we can’t ask the jury to acquit her on that basis.”

“So what’s left?”

“We’ve got to answer one question for the jury, Scotty-what they want to know: Who killed Clark McCall? If Shawanda didn’t, who did? Who came into that house right after she left, before Clark could get up off the floor and get dressed, picked up her gun, stuck it to Clark’s head, and pulled the trigger?”

Scott shook his head. “Have you heard from Carl?”

“He’ll call when he gets something.”

“Well, he’s got twelve hours to save us. Right now all we’ve got is Shawanda, her word against the evidence.”

Pajamae said, “Mama’s going to testify?”

“Yes, honey. She has to.”

“What’s she gonna wear?”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“We saved some of Mother’s things at the yard sale,” Boo said, “for Pajamae’s mother. For when she gets out.”

Scott turned to Karen. “Will you help the girls pick out some clothes?”

“Sure.”

“At least she’ll be nicely dressed.”

They ate the take-out Mexican food in silence now. Scott absentmindedly watched the girls eat, wondering how Pajamae would handle life with her mother on death row and then life without her mother after the execution, when he noticed something: Boo was holding her fork in her left hand.

“Boo, come over here.”

She got up off the floor and stepped over to him. Scott took the aluminum foil wrapping from his entree and fashioned it into the shape of an L. An aluminum foil gun. He placed it on the floor.

“Please pick that up.”

Boo frowned. “What’s it supposed to be, a gun?”

“Yes.”

She shrugged, leaned down, and picked up the foil gun with her left hand.

“Now grab my hair.”

She stood directly in front of him and with her right hand grabbed his hair above his left eye.

“Now point the gun at my forehead like you’re going to shoot me.”

She put the barrel of the foil gun to Scott’s forehead, above his right eye.

Bobby said, “Clark was shot above his left eye.”

“By a right-handed killer.”

Seeing Boo hold her fork with her left hand, Scott had remembered his first meeting with Shawanda, when she had held his pen with her left hand.

“Pajamae, your mother’s left-handed, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Fenney, she sure is.”