“Fifty an hour?”
“Plus expenses.”
“Like what?”
“Investigator, forensic experts, DNA tests…”
“Okay, but don’t go overboard.”
“Yeah, what the hell, she’s just a nigger.”
“I didn’t say that, Bobby.”
“Sorry. Cheap shot. You got a detention hearing?”
“Tomorrow morning, nine.”
“I’ll be there.”
They stood. Bobby pulled out his parking ticket.
“They validate?”
The athletic club was located on the top floor of the building adjacent to Dibrell Tower, connected by an air- conditioned skywalk so Scott Fenney didn’t have to sweat on the way to his daily workout. Most of the office buildings in downtown Dallas were connected by skywalks or underground tunnels, air-conditioned passageways so the lawyers and bankers and businessmen didn’t have to venture out into the heat or among the vagrants and panhandlers who called the downtown streets home; it was a prudent practice, particularly after a homeless man jumped a cop a few years back, grabbed his gun, and shot him point-blank in the face, right across the street from the downtown McDonald’s.
Scott had just traversed one such skywalk. It was now half past five and he was looking down on Dallas while running at 7.5 miles per hour up a ten-degree incline on a commercial treadmill and feeling pretty damn special. Which was not a new feeling for him. Scott Fenney had been special all his life. His father, Butch, had told him so when he was only eight, when he first put on pads and discovered his talent in peewee football. “You’ve got a gift, Scotty,” Butch had said. Later his mother said the same thing: “You’ve got a gift, but I don’t mean football,” she said. He never understood what she meant, and then she died.
But the notion took hold and grew inside him, nurtured by eight years of high school and college football heroics; the fans, students, cheerleaders, boosters, coaches, and reporters all assured him daily that Scott Fenney was indeed special. It became a part of him, like the blue of his eyes. And it had never left him; it had only grown stronger, through three years at SMU law school and eleven years at Ford Stevens. But now, instead of athletic ability, it was money that made Scott Fenney special. Money enough to buy a mansion, a Ferrari, a perfect life-and even an old friend.
For the first time in the twenty-four hours since the judge’s call, Scott’s mind was clear, his spirits high, and his eyes locked on the backside of the girl running on the treadmill in front of him, her amazing buns barely shimmying as they pumped up and down like pistons. Scott pulled his eyes off her firm butt and glanced at the mirror to his right; he caught the girl on the treadmill behind him checking out his firm butt. Their eyes met and she winked, and that intoxicating feeling of male virility formed in his brain, coursed through his nerves and veins like a narcotic, and energized his muscles. He increased the speed to ten miles per hour. He loved being special.
When Scott walked into her bedroom that night, Boo was already in her pajamas and in bed, propped up on pillows against the headboard. Her hands were folded in her lap, her hair brushed smooth, and her face scrubbed pink. She smelled like fresh strawberries. She had positioned a chair next to the bed, as she did each night before bedtime, with the current book Scott was reading to her in the seat. Scott picked up the book and sat down, rubbed his eyes, and replaced his glasses.
“Where were we?” he asked.
“Number six,” Boo said.
Scott opened the book and turned to the Sixth Amendment to the Constitution. Boo’s teacher had mentioned the Bill of Rights in class one day, so naturally Boo wanted to know everything about these special rights she never knew she had.
So he read: “‘In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial.’” He looked up. “What do you think that means?”
“The cops can’t lock you up and throw away the key.”
“That’s right. And your trial can’t be held in secret.”
“So if your prostitute doesn’t cop a plea, anyone can go to her trial.”
“Yes. And she won’t.”
“Won’t what?”
“Cop a plea.”
Boo leaned forward, her eyes wide. “You talked to her?”
“This morning, at the jail.”
“What’s she like?”
Scott shrugged. “Young, not very well educated, strung out, says she’s innocent.”
“Do you think she is?”
Scott shook his head. “No. Her gun was the murder weapon and her fingerprints were on the gun.”
“She had a gun?”
“Yeah.”
“ Shit…I mean, wow.”
She leaned back, thinking, so he read again: “‘By an impartial jury.’ You know what ‘impartial’ means?”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh.”
“It means jurors who are fair, not prejudiced against the defendant. ‘Prejudiced’ means hating people just because they’re different.”
She nodded. “We talked about that at school last year during Kwanzaa. So if someone hates black people, they can’t be on your prostitute’s jury.”
“That’s right.”
“How do you make sure?”
“You get to ask potential jurors questions before they become jurors.”
“Like what?”
“Well, in the prostitute’s case, you’d ask whether they’re prejudiced against black people or prostitutes or drug addicts.”
“But they’ll just say no.”
“Well, you don’t ask it straight out; you ask subtle questions, like, uh, have they ever been to a black person’s home? And you watch their body language, say a white guy is sitting next to a black guy, does he lean away.”
“Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Ever been to a black person’s home?”
“Uh, no.”
“But you’re not prejudiced, are you?”
“No, Boo, of course not. I used to have black friends, guys I played ball with at SMU.”
“Like who?”
“Well, like Rasheed…and Leroy…and Big Charlie-”
She smiled. “Who’s Big Charlie?”
Now Scott was smiling. “Charles Jackson. He was my right offensive guard. He blocked for me. He saved me many times on the field…and a few times off the field.”
“Y’all were good friends?”
Scott nodded. “Yeah. He was a great guy.”
“Is he dead?”
“No…I don’t think so.”
“Why aren’t y’all friends anymore?”
Scott shrugged. “He went off to play pro ball. I went to law school. We lost touch.”
She nodded. “So the only reason you don’t have black clients is because you don’t represent people, only corporations.”
“Exactly.”
