you cared, about winning, about your team, about me. You know, Scotty, I never told you, but you were my hero.”
Scott must have appeared shocked, because Charlie said, “No, man, I mean it. A hundred ninety-three yards against Texas-nobody does that! You wouldn’t quit and you wouldn’t let me quit. Twenty-three end sweeps that day, pulling my big butt around right end, then left end, then right end: I thought I was gonna die right out there on the field. But I’d look at you, getting the crap beat out of you every play but getting up and never quitting…man, you were tough.”
Scott sighed. “Life is tougher.”
“No, it ain’t. You’re forgetting your heart. Look inside yourself, it’s still there. Scotty, God gave you a gift back then, your athletic ability. But what we did out there, that was just a game. That girl’s life, that ain’t no game.” He put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Scotty, don’t you see? God’s given you a better gift than being a football star. You’ve got the ability to save that girl’s life.”
Scott looked at Big Charlie, who had given everything he had to Scott Fenney on a football field; and now, on a football field again, he had given Scott even more. At that moment, Scott realized that he needed Shawanda Jones as much as she needed him. He needed to be her hero. It was who he was. It was who he wanted to be again. It was what had been missing in his life. Scott was brought out of his thoughts when the bells at the Methodist church on the campus rang out.
“Shit, what time is it?” Scott asked.
“Noon, straight up,” Big Charlie said.
“Damn, I’m late!” Scott held his hand out, but Big Charlie bear-hugged him again. Scott said, “Thanks, my friend.”
And he ran toward the Emerald City.
United States District Court Judge Samuel Buford was sitting in his chambers behind his desk checking his watch. Twelve-thirty. No Scott Fenney. He wasn’t going to show.
Sam Buford sighed. He had thought there was hope for young A. Scott Fenney, Esq. But he had thought wrong. Fenney had the brains to be a hero, no doubt; and Buford had hoped he still had the heart. But now he saw that he didn’t. There was no hope for Scott Fenney…or for Shawanda Jones…or for the law.
At that very moment, Sam Buford decided to retire.
His time had come. He would retire and tend to his garden. Clear out those weeds, till the soil, plant carrots and squash and cabbage and tomatoes, maybe go organic; get that garden in good shape, something he hadn’t had time to do since…well, ever. Yep, time to put down the gavel and pick up the hoe.
He buzzed his secretary on the intercom and said he needed to dictate several orders. First order, postpone the trial date in United States of America versus Shawanda Jones. Second order, substitute counsel for Scott Fenney. But who? Herrin? The boy was a good writer, no doubt about it; but the defendant needed a hero, not a writer. He wished he were still Samuel Buford, attorney-at-law. He’d take her case. He’d be her hero. But he was Judge Samuel Buford. Soon to be a retired judge. Third order, dictate his resignation letter. As usual, Helen was prompt. In seconds the door swung open and-
Scott Fenney stood in the doorway, wearing only running shorts and drenched in sweat.
“Judge, I’m ready to be her lawyer.”
Sam Buford damn near got out of his chair and walked over to embrace the young lawyer, but that would probably violate some rule of judicial ethics, so he reined in his emotions.
“All right, son. Her life is in your hands. I hope you’re man enough to handle that responsibility.”
“I am. And, Judge, I’ll make her proud. My mother.”
Scott Fenney turned and walked out the door. Helen stepped into his place, dictation pad in hand.
“Ready, Judge?”
Buford waved her away. “Go back to your desk, Helen. I’ve got judging to tend to.” Helen turned away. “Oh, Helen, wait.” She turned back. “Get me Bob Harris on the phone.”
“Bob Harris?”
“He’s the INS regional director.” Buford leaned back and smiled. “My mama always said, one good deed deserves another.”
TWENTY-THREE
On Saturday the circus came to town.
Men and women, boys and girls, young and old, the wealthy residents of Highland Park came in droves. They parked on the side of the street, without the benefit of valets. They braved the 110-degree pressure cooker of a day and walked a block or more up the sidewalk to 4000 Beverly Drive. They had come to see something that only happened in other parts of Dallas County, in those neighborhoods into which they did not venture.
A yard sale.
But this was not a yard sale offering used toasters, beat-up couches, hand-me-down clothes, and an assortment of toys, baby strollers, car seats, and golf clubs. No, this yard sale boasted a walnut sideboard by Francesco Molon, a mahogany bookcase by Bevan Funnell, a pecan armoire by Guy Chaddock, a leather chair by Ralph Lauren, and a billiard table by Brunswick. It promised an assortment of sofas and tables and lamps and bedroom suites and Oriental rugs, an eclectic mix of furnishings with only two things in common: the former lady of the house once fancied them, and they were terribly expensive. It offered designer clothes, footwear, and accessories for women-dresses by Rickie Freeman and Luca Luca, handbags by Louis Vuitton and Bottega Veneta, shoes by Dior, Donna Karan, Marc Jacobs, and of course Jimmy Choo, shirts by Anne Fontaine, and silk scarves by Hermes. And there were girls’ clothes by Jacadi Paris. In all, over $500,000 worth of pricey personal possessions were on sale. And while Highland Parkers might joke about white trash and minorities engaging in curb shopping and Dumpster diving, a bargain purchase is a basic human desire that transcends race, color, creed, national origin, political affiliation, or socioeconomic position.
So they came.
They came up the brick-paved driveway and arrived at the rear motor court and backyard and four-car garage where the Fenney family possessions were on display and for sale. For cash. Pajamae told Scott you don’t take checks or credit cards at yard sales.
At dinner a week before, Boo had asked Scott what they were going to do with all of their stuff. They had enough things to fill the little house by SMU five times over. Scott said he didn’t know, but Pajamae said she did: “Have a yard sale, Mr. Fenney.” Pajamae had volunteered to run it because of her prior experience as a customer at numerous South Dallas yard sales. So the day of the event Scott was sitting at a makeshift checkout counter at the entrance to the motor court and taking cash from buyers while Pajamae and Boo made the sales.
“Two hundred,” said the old lady in the sun hat who had introduced herself as Mrs. Jacobs.
“Now, Miz Jacobs,” Pajamae said, “Miz Fenney, she paid two thousand dollars for that couch, and you want to buy it for two hundred? We priced it at seven hundred but”-she glanced around and lowered her voice-“long as you don’t tell Mr. Fenney, I’ll let you have it for six.”
“I’ll take it.”
With her Sharpie, Pajamae wrote “SOLD” and “JACOBS” on the tag and changed the price to $600. She pointed at Mr. Fenney.
“Pay the man.”
Mrs. Jacobs walked toward Mr. Fenney.
“Yoo-hoo, little colored girl!”
An old biddy was waving at Pajamae from over by the garage. Pajamae walked over. The woman was pointing at a leather chair.
“Is that a Ralph Lauren?”
“Lady, I’m not colored, I’m black. Well, I’m a quarter black, at the most. See, my mama’s daddy was white and so was my daddy. So that’d make me a quarter black and three-quarters white.” She smiled at the woman. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if we were related! And no, ma’am, that’s not Ralph Lauren, that’s a chair.”
“That’s a Ralph Lauren.”
