could open a Washington office. Think what that could do for me. For this firm. For you. Scotty, you could make a million dollars the first year he’s in office, two the year after that, three by the time you’re forty. You’d be filthy rich, just like you tell our summer clerks.”
Dan paused and caught his breath. “But Mack made it clear that if his son’s good name is dragged through the mud at this trial, Ford Stevens will not be his personal law firm.”
Scott leaned back in his chair. “He wants me to hide Clark’s past.”
“Yes, he does.”
“But, Dan, Clark McCall was a rapist and a racist. And now with Hannah Steele’s testimony, we might save Shawanda’s life.”
“Yes, you might at that. But you would also destroy Mack’s chances to be president. Scotty, if the press can put ‘racist’ and ‘rapist’ and ‘McCall’ in the same sentence-even if it’s about his son-his chances of winning the nomination are about as good as me getting laid by Miss America.”
“Dan, why didn’t you tell me you did work for McCall? I could’ve told Buford we had a conflict of interest, gotten out of the case.”
Dan nodded. “I talked to Mack about that option, but he said it would be better to have some, uh, influence with the hooker’s lawyer.”
“In case her lawyer learned about Clark’s past.”
Dan shrugged. “Mack McCall didn’t make eight hundred million dollars by not thinking out all the angles.”
“Clark McCall was a loser, Dan. Rich boy who liked to beat up girls ends up dead because he beat up the wrong girl. Why should we give a damn about his reputation?”
“We don’t. But this isn’t about Clark McCall, Scott, it’s about Mack McCall. And we do give a damn about his reputation because it’s in this firm’s best interest for him to be the next president. Scotty, we hold his presidency in our hands! Think about it. He’d owe me big-time!”
His eyes got a faraway look and his mouth formed a half smile, which meant inside Dan Ford was turning somersaults. After a moment, he returned to the present and said, “So what do you say, Scotty, my boy?”
Scott said nothing. The two lawyers, separated by twenty-five feet of hardwood floor and almost as many years of lawyering, stared at each other as if they were two kids trying to see who would blink first. Scott knew what his senior partner wanted him to say, that he would follow McCall’s orders because what was good for McCall was good for Ford Stevens. But-and Scott couldn’t put into thought why-he couldn’t bring himself to say those words. Whether born of the mulelike stubbornness he had inherited from Butch or his long-standing general disdain for rich boys like Clark McCall or perhaps something deeper, something inside him wouldn’t allow it. Finally, Dan broke eye contact, exhaled loudly, and turned to the door. On his way out, he said, “Scott, I need an answer for McCall. Soon.”
Boo sat up in the lounge chair by the pool in the backyard. She was wearing a white bathing suit and sunglasses and drinking pink punch Consuela had made. Pajamae was lying facedown in the adjacent lounge chair, wearing one of Boo’s many bathing suits. They were taking turns rubbing sunscreen onto each other’s back. It was Boo’s turn. She lifted Pajamae’s long braids and squirted a line of sunscreen onto her back.
A normal summer afternoon for Boo was spent home alone, reading a book. A. Scott was downtown, Mother was at the country club, and most of the kids her age were at their summer homes or at camp or in Europe. Not that Barbara Boo Fenney had many friends here in the Bubble. Most girls her age wanted to brag about their things. She didn’t. She was different. She thought different thoughts and she wore different clothes and she wanted different things. The other girls said she was weird and called her a lesbo because she didn’t dress like a girl. So she usually played by herself or swam under Consuela’s watchful eye. But today she had a new friend. Who was different, too.
“I love your hair,” Boo said. She began rubbing the white lotion into Pajamae’s brown skin. “Do black people need sun-screen?”
After a moment, Pajamae said, “I don’t know. But Mama always makes me put it on.”
“When will she get out of jail?”
“End of summer, if Mr. Fenney gets her out.”
“If she didn’t do it, she’ll get out.”
“Don’t work that way for us.”
“Us who?”
“Black people.”
“A. Scott’s a great lawyer. He’ll get your mother out.”
“I hope so. ’Cause my mama, she wouldn’t do well in prison.”
Boo rubbed until the lotion disappeared into Pajamae’s skin, then said, “Why do you talk like we do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, whereas-”
“Where what?”
“Whereas.”
“Where ass?”
“No, where as. A. Scott’s always saying whereas this and whereas that…it’s lawyer talk. Lawyers have lots of words like that.”
Pajamae was grinning. “Whereas. I like that. Where- as!”
“You don’t talk like black people on TV talk, like…”
“Black English, Mama calls it, like everyone in the projects talks. She says I’m not allowed to talk like that. She says I have to use correct English.”
Boo lifted one of Pajamae’s braids and let it slide through her fingers. She sat up with a start.
“Come on, I’ve got a great idea!”
Driving home, Scott was wondering why he wasn’t feeling more insulted by Mack McCall’s arrogant assumption that he could simply dictate to A. Scott Fenney, Esq., the terms of his representation of a client. The legal code of ethics to which all lawyers swear allegiance (at least long enough to obtain a license to practice law) clearly states (in theory) that a lawyer shall not be influenced by any outside interests in the zealous representation of his client. Of course, in practice the code of ethics is viewed by most lawyers in the same way career criminals view the penal code: more in the nature of suggestions than actual rules governing one’s professional conduct.
On the other hand, Scott was also wondering why he hadn’t readily agreed to McCall’s demands as requested by his senior partner. Scott had never gone against Dan Ford’s wishes-that would be like going against his own father. He had rubber-stamped all of Dan’s decisions for the firm, whether firing a partner or dumping a client or making campaign contributions to friendly judges up for reelection, because Dan was always acting in the best interests of Ford Stevens and thus in Scott’s best interests. Why had he hesitated this time? For the first time?
Back to the first hand: the fact that United States Senator Mack McCall just assumed Scott Fenney would drop his client’s best defense to a murder charge simply because McCall told him to, that should have brought Scott’s blood to a boil. Who the hell does he think he is? Back in college, if someone had even dared suggest that Scott Fenney, star halfback, might throw a game, he would have gotten pissed off and punched the son of a bitch in the mouth! Just for thinking he possessed so little integrity as to even entertain the idea of throwing a football game! So why wasn’t A. Scott Fenney, Esq., similarly pissed off when asked to throw a trial? Why was he even entertaining the idea? Had he engaged in so much aggressive and creative lawyering that he no longer recognized the difference between making a deal and compromising his integrity? Had he become such a good lawyer that he had no integrity left to compromise?
He was wrestling with these thoughts as he drove past the walled estates along Preston Road that backed up to Turtle Creek, the grand residences of real-estate tycoon Trammell Crow ($13.3 million appraised value), and Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones ($14.1 million), and Tom Dibrell ($18 million), and Mack McCall ($25 million)-and he realized that it had never before registered with him that McCall and his best client owned adjoining estates. He slowed as he passed the entrance to the McCall estate and was thinking back to the night of the murder, Clark and Shawanda driving in through those gates, only minutes remaining in Clark McCall’s life, when his cell phone rang. He answered.
“Scott Fenney.”
“Mr. Fenney, this is Louis.”
