Scott sat down hard in his chair and tried to get his breathing under control.
“You okay?” Karen asked.
“No.” After several deep breaths: “What’s up?”
“We’re ready to file the Dibrell zoning lawsuit.” Sid walked in as Karen continued: “But Richard down in litigation says Dallas County state court isn’t a favorable venue for this type of action. He says the judges are all Republicans and aren’t inclined to overrule a city’s zoning decisions.”
Sid winked at Scott and said, “Karen, what’s the single most important fact a lawyer needs to know before going into court, the one fact that will determine whether you win or lose?”
Karen seemed confused. Finally, she shrugged and said, “Which party was in the right and which was in the wrong?”
Sid chuckled. “Not exactly. This wasn’t on the bar exam, Karen, but the single most important fact to know is whether the other lawyer contributed more money to the judge’s last campaign than we did. Right, Scott?”
Scott nodded at Sid, but his thoughts were on Consuela…and the look on her face…as if Senor Fenney had betrayed her.
Sid said, “Only problem is, Scott, cases are assigned randomly. How can we be sure of getting one of our judges?”
Scott’s mind, though clouded with Consuela, remained ever aggressive and creative.
“Karen, tell Richard to file the lawsuit six times back to back. The six suits will be assigned to six different judges. We’ll pick the judge we gave the most money to, proceed with that suit, and nonsuit the others.”
Sid was duly impressed. Karen had that same freshman-coed-watching-her-first-porn-flick expression. Scott thought of his maid…he had betrayed her. He yelled out to his secretary:
“Sue, get me Rudy Gutierrez’s number! He’s an immigration lawyer!”
Karen asked, “Scott, is that ethical? Filing the same suit six times?”
“It’s a code of legal ethics, Karen, not the Bible.”
“Where’s the goddamn coffee?”
In the commercial-style kitchen at 4000 Beverly Drive in Highland Park, Rebecca Fenney was opening and slamming cabinet doors, trying to find the coffee beans and the grinder so she could make her own coffee for the first time in three years, angry and agitated because her anxiety and fear had increased exponentially. Had her husband fucked up a good thing? Was losing Consuela just the beginning-the beginning of the end? The arrest of the Fenney maid would be the main topic at every luncheon of Highland Park ladies this Monday. What would they think of Rebecca Fenney now? How would it affect her chances to chair the Cattle Barons’ Ball?
“What’s gonna happen to Consuela, Mother?”
Sitting at the table were the two little girls.
“I don’t know, Boo. Eat some breakfast.”
Pajamae jumped up. “I can cook, Mrs. Fenney. I cook for Mama all the time, eggs, bacon, biscuits, grits-”
“Skip the grits.” Rebecca tried another cabinet. “Where’s the coffee?”
Pajamae was now pulling out frying pans and utensils and dragging a chair to the range. She climbed up.
“Where-as. This is a cool stove.”
Rebecca gave up on coffee. “I’ll be downstairs on the Stairmaster. You girls try not to start a fire. We’ve got to get another maid. Soon.”
“INS came to your home in Highland Park? Jesus, Scott, who’d you piss off?”
Scott had called Rudy Gutierrez, the immigration lawyer.
“Her name is Consuela de la Rosa. Get her out today.”
“No way, Scott. INS won’t let go of her.”
“Why not? She’s just a maid.”
“Scott, since 9/11 every Mexican here illegally is an international terrorist as far as INS is concerned. They play hardball. They were pricks before-now they’re goddamned pricks.”
“I’ll pay whatever it takes, Rudy, just get her out.”
“Scott, it’d be cheaper not to fight deportation. Let INS bus her across the border, then she can cross back over and work her way back up here.”
“Consuela can’t handle that.”
“Okay, but it ain’t gonna be cheap.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five…thousand.”
“I’ll send you a check today. You find her today, Rudy, tell her everything is gonna be okay, that we’re her family and she’ll be back with us…and Rudy, tell her I’m sorry.”
Bobby had returned from the library shortly before noon. They were now taking the elevator upstairs to the Downtown Club. Scott was still aching to punch something. Or someone. He straightened his tie in the mirrored wall and said, “Bobby, we’re gonna show the world what kind of boy Clark McCall was.”
“For Shawanda or because McCall got your maid arrested?”
Scott stared at himself in the mirror a moment.
“I don’t know.”
“Let me know when you do.”
The elevator doors opened and Scott led the way down the corridor to the maitre d’s station.
“Two, Roberto.”
Roberto stood frozen, his brown eyes wide, as if the Virgin Mary herself stood before him. Scott expected him to make the sign of the cross.
“Roberto?”
“Uh, Mr. Fenney, I, uh, I, uh…”
“What, Roberto? We want lunch.”
“Mr. Fenney, I no can do.”
Roberto was suddenly no longer the suave maitre d’ of the Downtown Club; he was a no habla ingles immigrant just up from the border.
“You no can do what?”
“Give you seat.”
“Why not?”
Roberto’s forehead shone with a layer of sweat.
“You no member.”
“What the hell you mean I’m not a member?”
“Mr. Fenney, is no more.”
“You’re telling me I’m not a member anymore?”
Roberto nodded. “Si.”
“Get Stewart.”
Roberto hurried off in search of the club’s manager. Scott turned and nodded at the three men waiting behind him to be seated. In less than a minute, Stewart appeared, trailed by Roberto-and the club’s security guard.
“What the hell’s going on, Stewart?”
Stewart regarded Scott with the same disdain he would a homeless person seeking a handout at the swanky Downtown Club.
“Mr. Fenney, your membership has been revoked by action of the board of directors, effective immediately. I must ask you to leave the premises.” He gestured at the members in line behind Scott. “Roberto, seat these gentlemen.”
The three men followed Roberto into the dining room, but not before giving Scott a curious glance and whispering among themselves, “That’s Scott Fenney, Tom Dibrell’s lawyer.”
“You’re joking?”
“No, Mr. Fenney.”
Stewart held out an envelope. Scott snatched it, opened it, and removed a letter from the board of directors of the Downtown Club informing A. Scott Fenney, Esq., that his membership had been terminated. Scott’s blood
