“We ain’t stupid.”
“That’s open for debate.”
“Here’s the deal, Herrin. That little fuckup Clark ain’t gonna cheat his dad out of the White House, alive or dead. So you got a choice: take the money and get out of town or get arrested.”
“For what?”
“Dealing drugs.”
“I don’t have any drugs.”
“You will when I’m finished. I’ll call my buddies at the DEA and they’ll bust your ass.”
“With your record at the DEA? I don’t think so. I’ll tell them you planted the drugs, take a polygraph, and they’ll arrest you. So, what, McCall thinks Scotty can’t defend her without me? Scotty doesn’t need me.”
“He proved that before, didn’t he?” Delroy grinned. “You’re the only conscience he’s got, according to Burns.”
Bobby replaced the check and tossed the envelope to Delroy.
“Get out.”
“You’re making a big mistake.”
“Won’t be the first time. See you at the trial, Delroy.”
“Sorry, I can’t make it.”
“Sure you can.” Bobby picked up a subpoena, wrote Delroy Lund in the witness blank, and tossed it to Delroy. “You’re served, asshole.”
As soon as the word was out of his mouth, Bobby knew he had pushed Delroy’s button-and that he shouldn’t have. Delroy bent over and picked up the subpoena from the floor. He glanced at it; his face changed. He came over to Bobby, grabbed Bobby by the shirt, and yanked him halfway out of his chair. Delroy’s mouth was about six inches away from Bobby’s face when he said, “You little mother-”
“Hey, hombre!”
Standing in the door was Carlos Hernandez. Carlos was six feet tall, weighed maybe one-ninety, and was dressed for church: black leather pants, black pointed boots, a black T-shirt tight on his muscular tattooed arms, and two-inch silver bracelets on each wrist. His black hair was slicked back.
“Get your stinkin’ hands off my lawyer, gringo!”
The two men glared at each other. Finally, Delroy chuckled, released Bobby, walked a few steps, then turned back.
“Oh, your star witness took her check. She figured a vacation was better than being fish bait in Galveston Bay.”
Delroy laughed as he walked out the door past Carlos’s mean face. When he was gone, Carlos broke into a big grin and said, “Good thing you got me bail, huh, Mr. Herrin?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Carlos.”
Carlos held out a twenty-dollar bill. “From my mother.”
“Can we go see Mama?” Pajamae asked.
Scott opened the car door for the girls and said, “Sure.”
The drive from the church in East Dallas to the federal building in downtown took only minutes on the vacant Sunday morning streets. Louis stayed outside in the car. Scott and the girls went inside and rode the elevator to the fifth floor. They were escorted to the small bare room and waited for Shawanda. When she entered the room, she hugged Pajamae and Boo. Then Scott hugged her.
When he released her, he held her shoulders and said, “Shawanda, don’t be afraid of what might happen at the trial. With Hannah Steele testifying, we’ve got a fighting chance. And if we lose, we’ll appeal all the way to the Supreme Court.”
Shawanda smiled softly. “I ain’t scared, Mr. Fenney. People like me, we been on the wrong side of life long enough to know what to expect in a courtroom. But most of all, I ain’t scared ’cause you my lawyer.”
An hour later, they arrived back home to Bobby’s car parked in the driveway and Bobby sitting on the back steps smoking a cigarette. Bobby said, “Hannah Steele’s disappeared. McCall bought her off or Delroy scared her off; either way she ain’t testifying. We’re screwed.”
TWENTY-SIX
Scott parked the Jetta in an open lot two blocks down from the federal building. There was no shade to be found, so he lowered the windows an inch hoping the inside temperature wouldn’t rise high enough to melt the dashboard, then he climbed out. The girls followed him, both wearing the best outfits Rebecca had purchased for Boo at Neiman Marcus. Pajamae had on a white sundress with black polka dots and a wide-brimmed white hat; Boo wore a light blue sundress with a matching hat. They looked like two little Southern belles-except for the cornrows.
Scott pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket, removed his glasses, and wiped away the sweat already accumulating on his forehead. He then replaced his glasses, put on his coat, locked the car, and picked up his briefcase. He paid the attendant ten dollars for all-day parking, and then they walked up the street. Scott felt like he always did right before a game, his body alive with nervous energy, particularly when the opponents he would soon face were bigger, stronger, and meaner.
He looked down at the two little girls walking in front of him. Boo was the love of his life and Pajamae had become like a second daughter to him. They were excited, as if they were going to the zoo instead of a murder trial, chatting and giggling-until they turned the corner onto Commerce Street.
Then all three of them froze. Hundreds of people were gathered at the front entrance to the federal building: local, network, and cable TV vans lined the street, their satellite dishes and camera crews ready to capture and transmit breaking news; several dozen police were keeping the peace. It was the media circus Buford had promised.
“A. Scott, who are all those people waiting for?” Boo asked.
“Me.”
He pulled the girls close and forged ahead. When they were spotted, the cameras and reporters came rushing forward like the kicking team rushing downfield to tackle number 22 returning the opening kickoff. Scott would rather have faced those foaming-at-the-mouth football players than these crazed reporters wanting a sound bite for the evening news. They stuck microphones in his face and shouted from a foot away:
“Is Shawanda claiming self-defense?”
“Will other women testify that Clark raped them?”
“Are you gonna call the senator to testify?”
To all of which Scott answered, “No comment,” and pushed ahead. But then they went after Pajamae, sticking microphones in her face and shouting at her:
“Do you think your mother killed Clark?”
“Where will you live if she’s convicted?”
“Do you still love your mother?”
Scott got mad. He shoved the microphones and cameras away.
“Leave her alone!”
But Pajamae had stopped dead in her tracks. Her head was tilted up at the last reporter, an odd expression on her face, and she said in the softest voice: “Of course, I love my mama.”
Her words struck the reporters silent. A little black girl had embarrassed the media circus into submission. The crowd parted and allowed Scott and his two little girls free passage into the courthouse.
They got off the elevator on the fifteenth floor and walked down the hall and around the corner to Judge Buford’s courtroom, where Delroy Lund was sitting on a bench, reading the sports pages. They hadn’t seen each other since that day at the Village, but Delroy only glanced up at Scott and then back at the newspaper, without comment or expression. Per his subpoena, Delroy was legally obligated to sit outside the courtroom for the duration of the trial, waiting to be called inside to testify.
Scott pulled the big double doors open and escorted the girls into the courtroom, up the center aisle to the
