The Color of Law

TWENTY-EIGHT

The Defense calls FBI Agent Henry Hu.”

Ray Burns was out of his chair.

“Your Honor, Mr. Fenney declined cross-examination of Agent Hu yesterday; now he’s calling him as a defense witness?”

The judge looked at Scott: “Mr. Fenney?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Your Honor.”

“Proceed.”

Scott had been so sure that his client had killed Clark McCall that he had failed to ask a basic factual question of the government’s forensic expert: Was the murderer right- or left-handed? He had been so sure his client was lying that he had failed to even consider that she might be telling the truth. Now, for the first time since he had been appointed to represent the defendant in United States of America versus Shawanda Jones, Scott knew his client was innocent. Shawanda Jones did not kill Clark McCall.

But then, who did?

Agent Hu took the stand, with the judge reminding him that he was still under oath, and Scott said, “Agent Hu, your testimony yesterday was quite illuminating, and I mean that as a compliment.”

“Thank you.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to reenact for the jury the manner in which you believe Clark McCall was murdered.”

“Certainly.”

“My cocounsel, Mr. Herrin, will assist. Bobby, if you’ll kneel on the floor.”

Bobby walked over and knelt in front of Scott.

“Now, Agent Hu, your testimony is that Clark was halfway between lying and kneeling on the floor like Mr. Herrin is here when he was shot, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And the killer was facing Clark, as I am now, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And the killer grabbed Clark’s hair on the right side of his scalp, like this?”

Scott grabbed Bobby’s hair with his left hand.

“Yes.”

“And the killer than stuck the gun to Clark’s forehead above his left eye, like this?”

Scott fashioned his right hand like a gun and stuck his index finger to Bobby’s forehead.

“And the killer then shot Clark?”

“Yes. That is how I believe the crime occurred.”

“Well, I agree with you. But doesn’t this demonstration prove something else, something important about the killer?”

Agent Hu frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“The killer was right-handed.”

Agent Hu’s expression revealed his realization. “Yes, most likely the killer would have been right-handed.”

“The killer grabbed Clark’s hair with his left hand and held the gun with his right hand, correct?”

“Yes, that would be correct.”

“One other thing, Agent Hu. The medical examiner testified that there was a contusion around Clark’s right eye, as if he had been hit with a fist.”

“Yes, there was.”

“As a forensic expert, is it more likely that the person who hit Clark’s eye was right- or left-handed?”

“Left-handed.”

“So the person who punched Clark McCall was left-handed, but the person who shot him was right-handed?”

“Yes, that would be the most likely scenario.”

Scott called FBI Agent Edwards to the stand again.

“Agent Edwards, you testified that you arrested the defendant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that you took her statement?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You typed what she said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then she read it over and signed it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“With which hand did she sign her statement?”

Agent Edwards thought for a moment, then said, “Her left hand.”

The jurors had yet to see the defendant in person. They had seen her mug shots and pictures in the newspapers and on television, but they had not seen her. And they needed to see her and hear her, to listen and watch as she denied killing Clark McCall. Scott knew he had to put Shawanda on the stand, the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution notwithstanding, but he wanted to give her the best possible chance of success. So he had done two things: he had persuaded the judge to allow her methadone treatment, and he had kept her out of court until this moment.

Now all eyes-those of the judge and the jurors and the prosecutors and the spectators-were focused on the door at the side of the courtroom, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Shawanda Jones. Boo and Pajamae and Karen had been allowed in her cell-after being searched by a female guard-to help Shawanda get dressed. They had come into the courtroom a few minutes ago. Boo gave Scott another thumbs-up.

The door opened and a murmur ran through the room. Shawanda did not look like the heroin addict Scott had seen earlier that morning; she looked stunning and young. Scott had forgotten she was only twenty-four, the heroin had aged her so. But today she had recaptured her youth. She was wearing Rebecca’s navy blue suit, Rebecca’s high heels, and Rebecca’s makeup; her hair was fluffed lightly and brushed smooth; her eyes were sharp and alert. She looked at Scott and smiled. Shawanda looked like Halle Berry on a very good day.

The jurors’ eyes followed her as Ron escorted her over to the defendant’s table and pulled out her chair. She sat daintily and Ron pushed her chair in. She turned and looked at each juror, one by one, and they looked at her. Their first impression was a good one. Scott glanced back at the McCalls: the senator’s face revealed his worry, Jean’s face her jealousy. Beside them, Dan Ford’s face showed renewed interest in the proceeding.

Scott stood and said, “The defense calls Shawanda Jones.”

Shawanda stood and walked to the witness stand, took the oath, and sat down. Scott stood at the podium.

“Ms. Jones,” he said, “are you left-handed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you kill Clark McCall?”

“No, sir, Mr. Fenney. I did not.”

“All right, Ms. Jones, let’s talk about your life. Where were you born?”

“In the projects.”

“The projects in South Dallas, same place you now reside?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was your mother’s name?”

“My mama, she was called Dorena.”

“What was your father’s name?”

“Mr. Fenney, you know I don’t know that.”

“Your mother and father, they weren’t married?”

“No, sir. My daddy, he was a white man my mama worked for. She cleaned his office.”

“Okay, so you were born illegitimate?”

“No, sir, I was born in a hospital, Parkland.”

“Uh, okay. You never knew your father, correct?”

“No, sir.”

“You grew up in the projects?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your mother died when you were thirteen?”

“Something like that.”

“What did she die of?”

“No doctor.”

“No, I mean, did she die of cancer or what?”

“No, sir, she died ’cause she ain’t got no doctor. She fall over and we call for the ambulance and no one come.”

“And so you raised yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you fell in with a bad crowd.”

“Only crowd we got in the projects, Mr. Fenney. People got nothing to do, they get in trouble.”

“And you got in trouble.”

“Eddie, he my trouble.”

“Eddie was your child’s father?”

“Yes, sir. White man selling dope in the projects, seen me one day, when I was fourteen. He like what he seen, so he give me some dope and I let him touch me.”

“And Eddie gave you heroin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you became addicted at age sixteen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And by that time you were a prostitute?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

Her eyes dropped. “Mens, they think they gonna find all they been missing in they lives between Shawanda’s legs. Ain’t so.” She looked up. “It the only thing men ever want from me.”

“Ms. Jones, do you have a daughter?”

“Why, you know that, Mr. Fenney. She staying with you.”

The teacher and the housewives smiled. Scott turned to Pajamae behind him and gestured for her to stand. Pajamae stood, the most innocent expression imaginable on her face.

“Is she your daughter?”

“Yes, sir, that my baby.”

Pajamae turned to the jury and curtsied. Now every juror was smiling. The kid was good.

They broke for lunch before beginning Shawanda’s testimony about the night Clark McCall was murdered. Shawanda was not sitting on the floor with the girls, but at the table with Scott and Bobby and Karen, being very careful not to spill tuna fish on her Neiman Marcus suit.

“We’ve got a really pretty outfit for you to wear tomorrow, Mama,” Pajamae said from the floor.

“How I do, Mr. Fenney?”

“Fine, Shawanda. But the hard part’s this afternoon.”

“Think they gonna believe me?”

He thought no but said yes.

“Ms. Jones,” Scott said, “let’s go back to Saturday, June fifth. Did you take heroin that day?”

“I was alive, so I must have.”

“You took it every day?”

“Two, three time.”

“So before you went to work that night, you injected heroin?”

“Yes, sir. Make it easier that way.”

“Make what easier?”

“Sex.”

“All right, then Kiki, another prostitute, came by and the two of you drove over to Harry Hines Boulevard?”

“Yes, sir, our regular location.”

“And you waited for men to come by?”

“We never wait too long.”

“And did Clark McCall come by?”

“Yes, sir, but I don’t know him. He just a white boy in a black Mercedes.”

“And he offered you one thousand dollars to spend the night with him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, before Clark, did you, uh, work for another client?”

“No, sir, I don’t work for no one. I’m self-employed.”

“I mean, did anyone else pay you for a sex act that night?”

“I give a blow to a cop, but he don’t pay.”

“You engaged in oral sex with a police officer?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Fenney, that way he don’t bother us. Me and Kiki, we take turns with the cops. They freebies.”

“Okay, so back to Clark McCall. You got into his car and he drove you to his mansion in Highland Park?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you went inside?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And upstairs to his bedroom?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell the jury what happened then.”

Shawanda turned to the jurors and told them the story of that night without shame or guilt, just as a matter of fact. That she and Clark engaged in sex, after, that is, she made him put on a condom-“I can’t get that AIDS. I gotta take care of my Pajamae”-that he became rough, started slapping her, calling her nigger, that she scratched and punched him in the eye and kicked him in his balls, that he fell to the floor, and that she took her thousand dollars and his car keys, drove herself back to Harry Hines, and abandoned the car.

“And Clark McCall was alive the last time you saw him?”

“Yes, sir, he sure was, cussing me like a redheaded stepchild.”

“What did you and Kiki do then?”

“Go home, go to bed.”

“What did you do the next morning, Sunday?”

“Got up, fixed breakfast for Pajamae, go to church.”

“You went to church?”

She had a bemused expression. “Mr. Fenney, without sinners, no need for churches.”

The jurors smiled at that remark.

“And what were you doing when the FBI came to arrest you?”

“Sitting outside on the stoop, watching Pajamae.”

“Did you know why they were arresting you?”

“They say for killing some man. I said, I don’t kill no one. They don’t believe me.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Ray Burns nearly knocked Scott down, he was in such a hurry to cross-examine Shawanda.

“Ms. Jones, you’re a prostitute, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And a heroin addict?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you were with Clark McCall the night he was murdered?”

“That what the police say. I don’t know when he be killed.”

“He picked you up for sex, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He offered you a thousand dollars for the night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You got into his car, a Mercedes-Benz, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He drove you to his home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You went upstairs, he gave you alcohol to drink?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He removed his clothes, you removed your clothes, and you and Clark McCall engaged in sexual intercourse, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then you hit him in the eye?”

“Only ’cause he slap me and call me nigger.”

“And you kicked him in the groin?”

“No, sir, I didn’t kick his growing, I kick his balls.”

“Okay, his balls.”

“’Cause he be coming after me again.”

“And then you grabbed your gun and you shot him?”

“No, sir, I didn’t shoot no one.”

“You know your gun was the murder weapon?”

“I don’t know no such thing. You say that.”

Ray Burns picked up the. 22-caliber pistol.

“This is your gun, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why do you carry a gun?”

“You live in the projects, you die of old age waiting for the po-lice to come when someone trying to get in your place.”

“You shot Clark McCall, didn’t you?”

“No, sir. I didn’t shoot no one.”

“And you stole a thousand dollars from him?”

“No, sir. I earned it.”

“And you stole his car?”

“No, sir. I borrowed it, to get back where I belonged.”

“To flee the scene of the crime?”

“To get away before he hit me again.”

“And you went home to your daughter like nothing happened?”

“’Cause nothing happened.”

“Ms. Jones, do you really expect this jury to believe you?”

Shawanda looked at the jurors and said in a soft voice: “No, sir, I don’t expect no one gonna believe me.”

On his way upstairs to tuck the girls in for the night, Scott stopped at the small TV on the kitchen counter where the late news was replaying the day’s events at the trial. An artist’s sketch of Shawanda was on the screen. The reporter said that the defendant was quite beautiful and had comported herself well on the stand. The jurors, he said, were attentive and respectful and, by the end of the day, thoroughly confused by the idea of a killer who was probably right-handed and a defendant who was certainly left-handed. “If Shawanda Jones didn’t kill Clark McCall,” the reporter asked, “who did?”

Upstairs, Scott was leaning over the bed, tucking the girls in, when Pajamae said softly, “Mr. Fenney, I know what my mama does now, with her tricks.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “Mama lets them touch her private parts, put their private parts in hers. That’s what sex is, isn’t it, Mr. Fenney?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Why, Mr. Fenney? Mama always tells me never ever to let a boy touch my private parts. Why does she let men touch hers?”

“It’s like you said, Pajamae: she loves you, but she doesn’t love herself.”

“Mama, she’s had a sad life, hasn’t she, Mr. Fenney?”

“Yes, she has.”

“Now I know why she’s so sad always. She’s never had anyone who loved her all over, not just her private parts.”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“But she looked pretty today, didn’t she?”

“Very pretty.”

“Pretty enough to marry?”

Boo sat up. “A. Scott, we want to live together, with you and her mother. Wouldn’t that be a wonderfully happy ending?”

Scott sat on the edge of the bed. So many times he had fudged the truth with Boo, but after three days of a murder trial, she and Pajamae could handle the truth.

“Girls, happy endings happen in fairy tales, not in real life.”