statement.
“Three-point-four million sales price due to the seller, less deductions for the loan payoff, two-point-eight million principal plus twenty-four thousand eight hundred ninety accrued interest, the title policy premium, nineteen thousand, miscellaneous title company charges for the escrow fee-”
“Two-fifty?” Jeffrey said.
Joy said, “Standard charge.”
“But there’s no escrow.”
“We still charge the fee.”
“But-”
“I’ll pay the two-fifty, Jeffrey,” Scott said.
He wasn’t in the mood to argue over a $250 charge in a $3.4 million deal. Even with that deduction, Scott would net over $500,000 from the sale. After paying taxes and closing on the little starter home by SMU, with the rest of his 401(k) and the $67,000 from the yard sale, he’d have enough to start a new life.
He removed Penny’s hand again and whispered, “Stop!”
Across the table, Jeffrey and Joy were huddled over the buyer’s closing documents, more voluminous because of the mortgage documents between Jeffrey and his bank. Scott’s thoughts drifted back to that day three years ago when he had signed similar mortgage documents to purchase this very home, but before he could get very far he felt a soft whisper in his ear: “I’m not wearing any panties.”
Penny pulled back and their eyes met. Her eyes dropped and led his down. She twisted slightly in her chair and spread her legs a little and slowly slid the end of her dress up to reveal her tanned lower thighs, her smooth upper thighs, and finally that lovely intersection of thighs and torso. Scott inhaled sharply. She wasn’t lying.
Scott felt the blood rush southward. He began signing the closing papers as fast as his hand could scribble his signature: the closing statement, lien affidavits, nonresident alien certification, tax proration agreement, and the deed conveying his dream house to Jeffrey Birnbaum et ux Penny Birnbaum. Scott’s hand trembled when he signed A. Scott Fenney. He pushed the deed across the table to Jeffrey. And with that, his dream home was gone. He felt as if he had handed over his manhood.
But he knew he hadn’t because Penny had a firm hold on his manhood below the table. Scott’s face felt hot, whether from the emotion of signing away his home or the movement of Penny’s hand, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that he had to get out of this closing fast, so he scratched his name on the final document, the temporary lease by which he would lease the home back from the Birnbaums for ten days, enough time to vacate the premises. He pushed the paper across the table to Jeffrey, who glanced up from his stack of documents and at the lease, then at Scott and Penny and back to Scott, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“What the hell’s going on?” he said.
Scott froze, as did Penny’s hand.
“Uh, what do you mean, Jeffrey?”
Jeffrey picked up the lease. “Ten days? It was supposed to be seven.”
Scott exhaled with relief; Penny’s hand went back to work.
“Jeffrey, you moved up closing to today.”
“Well, can’t you get out sooner? We’re ready to move in.”
“No, Jeffrey, I can’t. I’ve got a murder trial starting Monday-you might’ve read about it. That’s a little more important than you getting into my house a few days earlier.”
“It’s not your house anymore, Scott.”
Jeffrey said it with the arrogance of a man completely unaware that at that very moment his wife was massaging another man’s penis.
That night, after prayers, Pajamae asked Scott, “So those twelve people are going to decide what happens to Mama?”
“Yes, baby, they are.”
“Do you trust them, Mr. Fenney?”
“Well…I don’t know them well enough to know whether I trust them or not. I hope they can find a way to be fair.”
Pajamae said, “I’m going to pray for them.”
“The jurors?”
She nodded. “Mama always says to pray for other people, so they do the right thing. Like she said I should pray for you.”
TWENTY-FIVE
When Scott woke up on Sunday morning, his mind instantly filled with fear. The trial would begin in twenty- four hours: Was he a good enough lawyer to save Shawanda? For the last eleven years, when he needed help, Scott had always gone to Dan Ford. Now he needed help and his thoughts went to Butch Fenney: Son, when you need help, hit your knees.
Scott rolled out of bed, put on his shorts, and hurried down the hall and up the stairs to the third floor. He found the girls on the bed. Pajamae was fixing Boo’s cornrows.
“Get your clothes on, girls, we’re going to church.”
Boo’s mouth fell open.
Louis led the way up the sidewalk to the front entrance of the small church in East Dallas and Pajamae said, “I wondered why y’all never went to church. Mama and me, we go every Sunday. I figured maybe white people just didn’t go to church.”
“Why didn’t you say you wanted to go?” Scott asked.
“Wouldn’t have been polite, Mr. Fenney.”
Scott Fenney had attended church regularly with his parents, but after Butch died, he’d lost any enthusiasm he had for religion. Why would God take a good man like Butch Fenney? But he still attended church with his mother until she died. The last time he had entered this church was for his mother’s funeral.
The preacher had nothing on Big Charlie.
Before they had parted back at the stadium that day two weeks ago, Big Charlie had said, “When God gives you a gift, it doesn’t mean you’re special. It means you’re blessed.”
Scott finally understood what his mother had meant when she had said he had a gift and she didn’t mean football. He knew that his entire life had led him to this one moment, to this trial, to Shawanda Jones. The judge was right: She needed a hero. She needed him. And he needed her. But it had been a long time since Scott Fenney had been someone’s hero. And he honestly didn’t know if he had it in him to be a hero now.
He glanced down at the two little girls sitting next to him. Boo and Pajamae turned their eyes up to him, the way he had often turned his eyes up to Butch in this very church. He remembered his father’s words again, and he slid forward and knelt.
And he prayed for help.
A mile away, Bobby Herrin was sitting in his dingy office drafting a trial brief. The front door was propped open because the landlord didn’t turn on the air-conditioning on Sundays. He inhaled and caught the scent of cheap cologne. He looked up. Standing in the door was a white man, bald, burly, and thick-necked. Delroy Lund.
Carl’s more thorough background check on Delroy Lund had revealed a DEA career checkered with reprimands for unnecessary use of force. Carl said he was digging deeper, but he hadn’t reported back yet.
Bobby tried to maintain his composure, but flinched when Delroy reached into his coat.
“Don’t try anything, Delroy! I yell out, Joo-Chan will come over-and he knows karate!”
Delroy chuckled. “That gook knows how to make donuts-but not on Sunday. You’re all alone, Herrin.”
But Delroy didn’t pull out a gun; he pulled out an envelope. Bobby exhaled with relief. Delroy tossed the envelope on the desk. Bobby opened it; inside was a check made payable to Robert Herrin, Esq., for the sum of $100,000. Bobby suddenly felt better about his standing in the legal profession: finally, he was important enough to be bribed. He examined the check.
“Bank check issued by a Cayman Island bank. That’s cute, Delroy. Not traceable back to McCall.”
