splash. Pajamae was coughing up water. Scott lifted her out of the pool and onto the deck, then climbed out and knelt beside her. She rolled over and heaved more water. She slowly sat up.
“Are you okay, baby?”
Pajamae looked up at Scott. “I thought I was gonna die, Mr. Fenney.”
“Not on my watch.”
She wiped her nose and leaned into Scott. She buried her face in his wet shirt and wrapped her arms around him. He patted her back.
“Girl, you’re getting swimming lessons.”
FIFTEEN
Scott Fenney led a double life: at the law firm, he was a successful lawyer practicing law like he played football-winning at all costs, working the margins, gaming the system, bending the rules, mastering the art of aggressive and creative lawyering, and making lots of money. At home, he was a good man, a faithful husband to Rebecca and a loving father to Boo, in whom each night at bedtime he tried to instill the virtues of living a good and decent life. Rebecca didn’t want to know what he did each day at the office and Boo didn’t need to know. The only part of his lawyer life he brought home each night was the money.
All lawyers lead such a Jekyll-and-Hyde life, diligently maintaining a strict separation between their dual lives, lying to their wives and children, and hiding their lawyer lives like a drug addict hides his illegal habit. Scott always told everyone he was a lawyer, but he never told anyone what he did as a lawyer. A lawyer learns that such matters are best left at the law firm. You walk into the office each morning and become a successful lawyer; you leave each night and become a good man again. But with each night, the transformation back-from Hyde to Jekyll- becomes harder. The lawyer in you doesn’t want to let go. But you beat it back because you cannot allow the boundary between your two lives to be breached. Scott Fenney had never brought his lawyer life home- never! — until the day he brought home a nine-year-old black girl.
Pajamae Jones was now part of his life-both lives. She was part of his home life, her mother part of his lawyer life. She loved her mother, and he was her mother’s lawyer. His decisions as her mother’s lawyer would determine if she had a mother much longer: if he said yes to Dan Ford, he was sending Pajamae’s mother to death row. The boundary between his dual lives had been breached, and now, like the last two teams standing at the end of a long season set to play for the championship, his two lives-Dan Ford versus Pajamae Jones-were locked in a life-and-death struggle for Scott Fenney’s soul.
I need an answer for McCall. Now.
Are the po-lice gonna kill my mama, too?
Would he be the lawyer Dan Ford wanted him to be? Or the man Pajamae needed him to be? He could no longer be both. He had to choose between his two lives. He had to face it head-on, like all those times when the blocking broke down and number 22 found himself alone on a football field facing five defenders. Then, as now, he had a choice to make: step out of bounds before getting hit or charge forward and take the hits and make the extra yards. Football coaches call those moments “gut checks,” because it is in those moments when you find out what you’re made of.
Scott Fenney was facing a gut check.
The trial date was one week closer, and Scott was sitting at the small table in the small room at the federal detention center next to Bobby and across from Shawanda. She was happy, upbeat, and full of energy. Bobby was showing her photos from Carl’s background checks.
“This is Clark in his better days. He ever try to pick you up before that night?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. Course, drunk white boys all look the same on Saturday night.”
Bobby held up another photo. “The honorable senator.”
Shawanda stared at the image of Mack McCall and said, “He make my skin crawl.”
“Yeah.” Bobby pointed to a big bald man standing in the background of the same photo. “You ever see this guy?”
“No, sir…and I wouldn’t forget that face.”
Scott said, “Who’s he?”
“Delroy Lund, McCall’s bodyguard. His goon, according to Carl. Ex-DEA. Carl says he can smell a dirty cop a mile away.”
“So what’s he got to do with the case?”
Bobby shook his head. “Nothing.”
“So Carl came up empty?”
“Yeah, but he never quits looking.”
With that news, Scott decided to make one last attempt to convince his client to accept the plea offer. “Shawanda, all we have is this Hannah Steele woman. Clark raped her a year ago.” Scott turned to Bobby. “Did Carl get a photo of Hannah?”
“No, she’s real shy, wouldn’t let him. Carl said she’s like a piece of china, a real fragile girl. Said he wouldn’t bet a six-pack on her holding up under a tough cross. And Ray Burns is gonna be damn tough, he’ll try to make her look like a…” Bobby’s eyes cut to Shawanda. “He’ll explore her sexual history.”
“Yeah.” Scott turned back to his client. “Shawanda, if you made a deal, at least you wouldn’t be facing a death penalty.”
“Mr. Fenney,” she said, “if I can’t be with Pajamae, I just as soon die.”
Scott sighed and nodded at Bobby.
“Okay, Shawanda,” Bobby said, “we’ll go to trial. But you’ve got to understand, the evidence against you is substantial, more than enough to put you on death row. Our only hope is Hannah. We’ll put you on first, then we’ll put her on. She’ll corroborate…back up your testimony, which gives the jury more reason to believe you.”
“Why can’t I take one of them lie detector tests, prove I ain’t lying? I seen them on that TV show-they make the boy wanna marry the daughter take a lie detector test, ask him if he was cheating.” She laughed. “Them white boys lie every time.”
Bobby was shaking his head. “That’s not a good idea, Shawanda.” He turned to Scott. “Scotty, I was thinking about those reporters calling you, asking for TV interviews with Shawanda? Maybe we should do that, let her tell the world what happened. That’ll condition the jury pool. And after she’s told her story, you can ask that any other woman who was beaten or raped by Clark McCall come forward so Shawanda doesn’t go to jail for a crime she didn’t commit.”
“That sound good to me, Mr. Fenney,” Shawanda said.
Scott dropped his eyes and said, “I don’t know, Shawanda, that might not be the best strategy.”
Scott’s eyes were still down when Bobby said, “Shawanda, Scotty and I need to talk outside.”
Bobby stood and knocked on the door. The guard opened the door, and Scott pushed himself up out of the chair and followed Bobby into the hall. They had walked ten steps down the corridor when Bobby stopped and leaned against the wall.
“She’s doing a lot better,” Scott said.
“She’s high.”
“What?”
“She’s feeling the rush.”
“You mean heroin?”
Bobby nodded.
“How do you know?”
“Scotty, my best clients are dopers. You can see it in their eyes when they’re on it. It’s like they own the world.”
“How’d she get it in here?”
Bobby shrugged. “Guard, janitor, who knows.”
“She looked good the last time. I figured she was over it.”
Bobby shook his head. “A junkie’s never over heroin. The cravings are always there. I get them probation
