Ray chuckled and said, “Yeah, right,” then extended his hand to Scott. “Ray Burns, Assistant U.S. Attorney.”
Scott shook hands with Burns and said, “Scott Fenney, Ford Stevens.”
“I heard Buford tapped private counsel for this case,” Burns said. He turned his palms up and glanced from Scott to Bobby and back. “So, what, you bailing on the defendant?”
“No, I’m not bailing. I’m trying to do the right thing, hiring her a real criminal defense attorney.”
“The right thing?” Burns said with the same smirk, clearly his trademark expression. “Looks an awful lot like bailing to me.”
Ray Burns, Assistant U.S. Asshole, returned to the prosecution table, his right shoulder riding low under the weight of the king-sized chip he was carrying around. Government lawyers always have chips on their shoulders when dealing with big-firm lawyers like Scott because the big firms didn’t hire them out of law school: if you can, you do; if you can’t, you teach; if you can’t teach, you hire on with Uncle Sam.
Bobby leaned in and whispered, “Burns is a dick. Trying to build a conviction record so he can move up to D.C. Asshole’s put a couple of my clients away for life, for possession. Course he called it ‘intent to distribute.’”
A side door opened and a strange black woman appeared in a white jail uniform. Scott stared at the woman for several seconds before realizing that she was Shawanda. She had looked awful yesterday; today she looked like she was dying. The same black guard escorted her into the courtroom, his arm under hers, almost carrying her over to Scott. By the time she arrived, her face was a brown frown.
“Morning, Shawanda.”
Her entire body was trembling, shaking, twitching. Scott almost reached out and embraced her, to warm her like he did Boo when she got a chill after getting out of the pool, but at the last second the thought of his client throwing up on his expensive suit dissuaded him. He eased a step away from her.
“Who’s him, Mr. Fenney?” she said in a weak voice, gesturing at Bobby.
“Bobby Herrin, your lawyer.”
“Thought you my lawyer?”
“Shawanda, I represent corporations, not criminals…I mean, people charged with crimes. I hired you a real criminal defense attorney.”
“All rise!”
The bailiff’s voice boomed out and everyone in the courtroom stood as Judge Samuel Buford entered from a door behind the bench. He was the very image of a federal judge: the white hair, the patrician face, the black reading glasses, and the black robe. He sat behind the bench, which was elevated, as if to emphasize the supreme power of the law. To look him in the eye Scott had to angle his head up about twenty degrees.
“Be seated,” the judge said. He shuffled through papers on his desk and glanced up over his glasses, first at Ray Burns, then at Scott and Shawanda and Bobby. Finally he said, “ United States of America versus Shawanda Jones. Detention hearing.”
He looked at Shawanda again.
“Ms. Jones, are you okay?”
He was a father asking his young daughter if she was hurt after falling off her bicycle. Shawanda nodded and the judge then turned to the lawyers.
“Gentlemen, please make your appearances.”
Burns said, “Ray Burns, Assistant U.S. Attorney, for the government.”
Then Scott said, “A. Scott Fenney, Ford Stevens, for the defendant. If I may, Your Honor, my firm has retained Robert Herrin, Esquire, to assume representation of the defendant. Mr. Herrin is a well-respected criminal defense attorney in Dallas. He possesses much more experience than I in criminal matters and will be able to provide the defendant a more competent defense. With the court’s permission, I ask to withdraw from representation of the defendant and for Mr. Herrin to be substituted in my place.”
The judge was eyeing Scott over his reading glasses; a wry smile crossed his face.
“Didn’t really want to be another Atticus Finch after all, huh, Mr. Fenney?”
Scott knew better than to respond. The judge’s smile dissolved into a look of disappointment that, for some odd reason, bothered Scott. The judge sighed and dropped his eyes. He started writing on what Scott knew was the case docket, officially substituting Robert Herrin, Esq., as counsel for the defendant in place of A. Scott Fenney, Esq. Scott felt like a kid about to get out of detention hall.
The judge said, “Well, since it’s okay with Ms. Jones…”
Shawanda Jones rubbed her face but her skin felt numb. She hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours; the cravings kept her awake all day and all night. She had never been without heroin for this long since she had gotten hooked, and it was killing her. Her mind was fuzzy and she couldn’t get her thoughts straight. She had a blinding headache that wouldn’t quit. She ached all over. Every muscle and bone in her body was throbbing with pain, and her skin was covered with goose bumps from the chills that swept over her regularly.
Her eyes were dry and gritty as she raised them to the white man standing to her right, this Robert Herrin Esquire. He was short, had a belly on him, and must have had bad acne as a boy because his face was pockmarked. His brown hair clearly hadn’t been washed that morning. He was wearing the cheapest suit she had ever seen on a white lawyer-the damn thing shined under the fluorescent lights! His white shirt had yellowed a shade and its button-down collar was missing one of its buttons. His tie screamed Sale at JCPenney! No doubt, she made more money hooking than he did lawyering.
She turned to the white man to her left, Mr. Fenney. Tall and blond and handsome, wearing a dark pin-striped suit that hung like a silk dress over his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt with French cuffs, a maroon silk tie, and the overall appearance of a white-boy version of the baddest pimp in the projects, he had a look that said, I’m a stud.
A stud or a dud?
Shawanda was twenty-four years old. She had dropped out of school at age fifteen when she got pregnant. She had only nine years of formal education. But she wasn’t stupid. And her prior experiences with the American legal system had taught her an important lesson, one she wasn’t ever going to forget: rich lawyer means good lawyer; poor lawyer means bad lawyer. She looked up at the judge and said, “It ain’t okay!”
Scott’s heart froze as the words from the black woman standing next to him hit his brain. The judge’s head shot up. His eyes locked on Shawanda Jones. Scott turned and stared down at her, stifling the urge to strangle this client who refused to go away quietly.
“What?” the judge asked.
“It ain’t okay with me,” Shawanda said. She pointed a trembling black finger at Scott. “Judge, I’m innocent and I want Mr. Fenney be my lawyer.”
The judge yanked his reading glasses off his face and cocked his head at Scott.
“Mr. Fenney, did you not discuss this with your client prior to asking this court to substitute counsel?”
Scott cleared his throat. “Uh, no, sir.”
“Well, maybe you should have.” The judge returned to Shawanda. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want Mr. Fenney as your lawyer?”
“Judge, I believe in him. I feel confidence in him. I know he can prove me innocent.”
The judge again turned to Scott.
“Mr. Fenney, it’s the defendant’s right to counsel, so it’s her decision.”
“Your Honor, may I have a moment with Ms. Jones?”
The judge gave him a brief wave of the hand.
Scott stepped between Shawanda and the judge, leaned down to her, and whispered through clenched teeth: “Look, goddamnit, my firm is hiring a lawyer for you. I’ve got better things to do than take you to trial. I’m not gonna be your lawyer. Now you tell the judge it’s okay for Bobby to represent you.”
Scott straightened up and faced the judge. The judge held his hands up.
“Well, Ms. Jones?”
Shawanda again turned to Robert Herrin- Dud! — then to A. Scott Fenney- Stud! She pointed at Mr. Fenney and said, “I want him.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Dan Ford was upset now. “A goddamn hooker holding this firm hostage!”
