Boo laughed. “Of course, I do. Where do you sleep?”
“On the floor.”
“Oh, you don’t have a real bed?”
“No, I’ve got a bed.”
“Do you have a bad back? Sometimes A. Scott sleeps on the floor when his back acts up, from when he played football.”
“No, I don’t have a bad back.”
“Then why?”
“It’s safer.”
“From what?”
“Gunfire.”
After some discussion, Boo convinced Pajamae that it was safe to sleep in a bed in Highland Park, and they were sleeping side by side an hour later when Scott climbed the stairs, as he did each night before going to bed, to check on his daughter and to kiss her on the forehead. The two girls were lying so close together that when he leaned over and kissed Boo, he had only to lean over just a little more to kiss Pajamae on the forehead as well. When he did, she stirred and whispered in her sleep, “Daddy?”
TWELVE
The competition from other Dallas law firms for the top law graduates each year was fierce. Ford Stevens offered the same starting salary, required the same billable hours, and promised the same personal chemistry between partners and associates. Money and hours were easy sells; personal chemistry, though, took all of the partners’ lawyering skills, pretending to care about these students’ lives when in fact they cared more about their own shoes. But then, lying to law students was just part of the game.
And that game was being played in earnest today at 4000 Beverly Drive. Scott Fenney was hosting Ford Stevens’s annual Fourth of July party for the firm’s summer clerks at his Highland Park home. He was standing on the patio under the awning and shaking his head: forty out-of-shape law students in bathing suits, their pale white bodies frolicking in and around his fabulous pool and professionally landscaped backyard, was not a pretty sight. Thank God they had the good sense not to wear Speedos. If not for Missy and the other cheerleaders in bikinis, the view from the patio would have been downright dismal.
“Got some good news, Scotty.”
He hadn’t noticed Bobby there. “What’s that?”
“Talked to Hannah Steele. She’ll testify. Told me the whole story about Clark, said he was the nicest guy in the world until he got loaded, then he turned into an animal. His idea of foreplay was smacking her across the face.” Bobby took a swig of beer. “Shawanda did the world a favor, blowing his brains out.”
“So she’s it then, our only defense?”
“Yep. But she wants her name kept quiet until the trial. She’s scared shitless of McCall.”
“Don’t we have to put her on our witness list?”
Bobby shrugged. “We’re supposed to. But Buford, he’ll cut us some slack, seeing how he hates the death penalty and Burns won’t give it up. Did you read my brief on that, why the death penalty doesn’t apply to this case under the statute?”
Scott shook his head.
“Have you read any of my briefs or motions?”
“I haven’t had time.”
Bobby grunted and went in search of the barbecue, leaving Scott to his thoughts, which were of Dan Ford: Scott, I need an answer for McCall. Soon.
“Well, if it isn’t Johnnie Cochran.”
Bernie Cohen had arrived with a beer in his hand.
“What’s your whore’s defense, Scott?” His next words came out in his version of rap rhythm. “If the condom don’t fit, you must acquit?”
Bernie thought he was hilarious. He was a partner in the securities section of Ford Stevens and looked like he was fifty years old even though he was only a year older than Scott. No muscular definition was noticeable anywhere on his body; Bernard Cohen was what in junior high they called a “fat-butted boy.” Bernie pointed his beer at Boo and Pajamae sitting on the edge of the far side of the pool.
“That her daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s living with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Saw your client’s photo in the paper. She’s a good-looking black babe.” Bernie nudged Scott’s arm and grinned. “She paying you in kind?”
“Shut up, Bernie.”
Bernie recoiled, snorted, and walked away, leaving Scott to wonder why at one time he had sort of liked the pudgy prick. And why he wasn’t enjoying the party the way he had last year when he had taken great pride in showing off his residence to the impressionable students: the one-acre estate in the heart of Highland Park; the four-car garage occupied by the Ferrari, Rebecca’s Mercedes-Benz coupe, and the Land Rover they used for family road trips; and the expansive covered patio overlooking the pool and cabana, beyond which was a vast expanse of grass kept lush and green by the underground sprinkler system. Scott had set up a volleyball net out there and some of the students were now playing. He shook his head-not an athlete in the bunch.
This year he just couldn’t get into the spirit of the day. The students were happy, the cheerleaders were friendly, the beer was flowing, and the barbecue was cooking…but Scott’s thoughts were on Shawanda Jones and the little black girl sitting on the far side of the pool and his wife’s threat and Dan Ford’s demand. Scott, I need an answer for McCall. Soon. The trial was only seven weeks away, and Scott had a big decision to make, a decision he didn’t want to make, a decision that had darkened his mind. That feeling of impending doom had become his constant companion.
Sitting on the edge of the pool, Pajamae said, “I haven’t been around this many white people since last year when Mama took me to the State Fair. Only time we see white people.”
“You haven’t missed much,” Boo said.
Pajamae waved her hand around. “Who are they?”
“Lawyer wannabes.”
“Whatabes?”
“Students A. Scott’s law firm is trying to hire.”
“Those are some homely white boys. But the girls are real pretty. Are they their women?”
“The cheerleaders?”
“They’re cheerleaders?”
“They used to be. A. Scott pays them to come to the party and act interested in the students, so they’ll hire on. He calls it bait and switch.”
“Bait and what?”
“Bait and switch, like when an ad in the paper says certain Rollerblades are on sale, but when you get to the store they say they’re sold out so you should buy another brand that costs more.”
“Oh, like when a trick tries to get Mama to lower her price after she gets in his car.”
“Someone tricked your mother into his car?”
“No, the trick-that’s the john.”
“The toilet?”
“No, a man who wants to buy Mama.”
“Your mother’s for sale?”
Pajamae nodded. “By the hour.”
“A. Scott sells himself by the hour, too. He calls them billable hours. He charges three hundred fifty dollars an
