“What kind of favors?”
“Well, Tom told me that ten, twelve years ago, McCall threatened to hold up legislation desired by the lender holding the mortgage on his downtown office building unless the lender held off foreclosure. And that McCall used his influence to swing several federal construction projects to Tom.”
“And now he asked Mr. Dibrell for a favor in return?”
“Yes.”
“And what was that favor?”
“To fire me as his lawyer.”
“And did he?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And how does that hurt you?”
“Tom was my biggest client. He paid my firm three million dollars in fees each year.”
“That’s a lot of money. So when Mr. Dibrell fired you, your professional career was harmed in a very significant way.”
“Yes, it was. But I’m here to tell Senator McCall, on national TV, that despite his efforts to destroy me, I will defend Ms. Jones to the best of my ability. And evidence about his son’s racism and rapes will be introduced at trial. Shawanda Jones will have a competent defense. I’ll make sure of that.”
The phone rang just as the program went to commercial again. Mack picked up the phone and answered. It was Delroy calling from Dallas. “You watching this?” Delroy asked.
“Yeah.”
“You still just want to control him?”
“Now I want to hurt him. Leak it about his wife and the golf pro.”
“Okay, but we can hurt him worse than that…and control him.”
“You mean…” Mack decided not to complete his thought with Jean present. But he didn’t need to with Delroy.
“Yeah, I mean. It worked with a Mexican drug lord. It’ll damn sure work with a lawyer.”
“I don’t know, Delroy, that sort of thing…”
Mack turned back to the TV. The reporter was speaking directly into the camera: “What kind of man would try to destroy a lawyer for doing his professional duty? For defending a black woman accused of murdering a white man? Apparently, Senator Mack McCall is that kind of man.”
Mack’s blood pressure and anger spiked again. He said into the phone to Delroy: “Do it.”
He could almost see Delroy grinning when he hung up.
On the TV the reporter turned to Fenney: “Mr. Fenney, thank you for coming on tonight so the American people can know what kind of man Senator McCall is before they decide to elect him president. You’re a brave man. But Senator McCall is a rich and powerful man. Aren’t you afraid he’ll hurt you again?”
Fenney said, “McCall can’t hurt me anymore.”
Mack McCall walked into the closet, returned with a Smith amp; Wesson. 357 magnum pistol he kept up on the shelf, pointed it at the image of A. Scott Fenney on the television, and pulled the trigger.
“The hell I can’t.”
After leaving the federal building, Scott drove the Ferrari through the dark and deserted downtown. It was eerily quiet. And it reminded him of his senior season, after his last game, when he walked from the belly of the stadium onto the dark and deserted field, stood on the 50-yard line, and just looked around, knowing it was over.
Rebecca was in the kitchen, staring at the TV, when he entered the house. The late news was on; a reporter was saying, “A flash poll taken immediately after the Shawanda Jones interview shows Senator McCall’s poll numbers plummeting. He’s fallen to single digits among likely voters, from first place to last, perhaps spelling the end to his White House ambitions.”
Scott said, “I showed that son of a bitch.”
Rebecca turned from the television; on her face was an expression of utter devastation.
“You just threw our lives away for a whore.”
NINETEEN
The next morning, Scott Fenney felt like he had the morning after he had run for 193 yards against Texas: he hurt less because his opponent hurt more. Sure, he had lost his rich client, all his cash, his dining, athletic, and country club memberships, and his Mexican maid, and he would soon lose his Ferrari and his mansion. But Mack McCall had lost the White House. Scott Fenney had beaten a Texas roughneck at his own game.
How about those brass knuckles, McCall?
How’s that for hardball, you mean son of a bitch?
So as he pulled the Ferrari into the parking garage beneath Dibrell Tower a little after nine, Scott was smiling. And why not? He was still a partner in Ford Stevens LLP, the most profitable law firm in Dallas. He still made $750,000 a year (although he would have to recruit new clients to replace Tom Dibrell’s fees). He was still a local football legend, still able to bring a smile to any SMU alum’s face, still able to turn on the famous charm and flash that movie-star smile.
Scott Fenney was still a winner.
He stuck the key card into the slot on the entrance gate and waited for the gate to rise. And waited. He stuck the key card in again and waited. Still nothing. He punched the button that rang Osvaldo over in the exit booth twenty feet away. When Osvaldo turned and saw him, Scott waved him over. Osvaldo exited the booth and walked over. Scott held up the key card.
“Card won’t work,” Scott said. “Raise the gate.”
Osvaldo retreated a step and said, “No card.”
“No, I’ve got a card. It’s not working. Open the gate.”
Osvaldo was now shaking his head. “No gate.”
“Open the goddamned gate!”
Osvaldo held his hands up. “No card. No gate.”
“Jesus Christ!”
Scott backed out and parked the Ferrari on the street, pumped a few quarters into the parking meter, pissed off until he remembered that the Ferrari would be his for only nine more days. Fuck it. Two-hundred-thousand-dollar car gets scratched, it’s the bank’s loss. By the time he hit the front door of Dibrell Tower two blocks away, he was whistling.
Rebecca Fenney was crying. She was still in bed, hiding from Highland Park. She had bet her beauty on Scott Fenney and lost. Her house. Her car. Her status. Her life. Everything she had acquired over the last eleven years would soon be gone. And it hadn’t been lost to a twenty-two-year-old blonde with big tits and a tight ass-to a girl by the pool-but to a heroin addict, a whore, a…Rebecca never said that word because even in Highland Park such words are best said only behind the brick walls at the club, but she thought that word now: nigger.
Her husband had sacrificed her life for a nigger’s life.
There. She had said it. Or at least thought it. As everyone in Highland Park was thinking at that very moment-the town is so small, so insular, that nothing escapes notice. Not that this could have escaped the notice of anyone in America, her husband on national TV, for God’s sake! And today at lunch, her (former) society girlfriends would order Caribbean salad, tortilla soup, sparkling water, and for dessert, Rebecca Fenney. She would be today’s scandal souffle.
Oh, how they would gossip! And how they would laugh!
There’s nothing the girls love to sink their sharp teeth into more than a juicy scandal: a lesbian affair; a good Highland Park girl knocked up by a black SMU athlete; botched cosmetic surgery; drinking, drugs, and STDs at the high school; criminal fraud committed by a scion of an old Highland Park family; a Democrat in Highland Park; failure in Highland Park. They lapped it up like the family dog laps up leftovers.
Rebecca Fenney had gossiped so many times about other women’s scandals. Now everyone in Highland Park
