front row, and as he was pointing out where they should sit, he glanced back at the second row and found himself staring at United States Senator Mack McCall and his wife. And they stared back. Scott thought he noticed the senator’s right arm come up slightly, as if he were going to reach over and shake Scott’s hand, a politician’s habit, but the senator pulled back. Scott’s eyes fell on Jean McCall; she looked straight into his eyes and her eyebrows rose slightly, as if asking a silent question, then she recrossed her legs, left over right. The movement drew Scott’s eyes down to her short skirt, and she looked away, but ran her hand down the length of her smooth thigh. Scott was turning his head back to the girls when he noticed Dan Ford. His former senior partner, mentor, and father figure was sitting next to Jean McCall with a grim expression. Dan broke eye contact with Scott and looked down, slowly shaking his head.
Scott got the girls settled in on the jury side of the spectator section. He wanted the jurors to see the defendant’s daughter and think, How could the same person be a loving mother and a cold-blooded murderer?
“Oh, that’s a nice touch.”
Ray Burns’s smart-ass voice. Scott turned to his adversary, but Ray just shook his head and walked to the prosecution table. Bobby and Karen were already seated at the defendant’s table.
“Clark McCall was lying on the floor of his bedroom, writhing in pain after being kneed in the groin, when the defendant, Shawanda Jones, walked over to him, grabbed his hair, yanked him up, stuck the barrel of her. 22-caliber pistol to his forehead, and pulled the trigger, killing him instantly. Then she stole his money and his car. Shawanda Jones murdered Clark McCall, a federal official, during the commission of a robbery. That is what the evidence will show. And that is why I will ask you to return a verdict of guilty and a sentence of death.”
Assistant United States Attorney Ray Burns turned away from the jury, walked from the podium back to the prosecution table, and winked at Scott, knowing that he had just made a very effective opening statement, telling the jury exactly what he would prove and knowing he could back up his words.
“Mr. Fenney,” Judge Buford said.
Scott stood and glanced at the spectator section crowded with gawkers gathered to witness a trial the likes of which Dallas had never seen. At the back of the courtroom were the groupies, old men who came to the courthouse each day like other old men went to the golf course. Next up were several rows of the general public who had lined up outside before daybreak to get a seat. Then came five rows of reporters taking notes and courtroom artists sketching portraits. Then came an assortment of lawyers and state court judges who viewed the trial as continuing legal education. And finally there were Senator McCall and his wife, McCall staring holes in Scott’s skull, Jean just staring, and Dan Ford shaking his head. Directly in front of them, Boo and Pajamae sat like two little prim and proper Highland Park girls, knees together, hands in their laps. He looked at Boo and she smiled and gave him an emphatic thumbs-up. He wished he shared her confidence. He walked over to the podium and faced the jury. He would not dispute the government’s evidence. He would only dispute the government’s conclusions.
“Shawanda Jones is a prostitute and a heroin addict. She’s not present this morning because she’s sick; she’s suffering withdrawal. Judge Buford permitted me to make you aware of her illness so you would not hold her absence against her. If you remember, at jury selection, I asked only one thing from each of you, and that was to give Shawanda a fair shake.”
There was a time, not that long ago, when a black defendant could not get a fair shake in a Southern courtroom; when a complete stranger could walk in off the sidewalk and, without knowing anything about a case, instantly pick out the defendant, the only black person in the courtroom; when a jury of a black defendant’s “peers” would be white men. But the times had changed and so had the law. Scott now looked into the eyes of the black and brown and white men and women sitting in the jury box-the teacher, the mechanic, the nurse, the bartender, and the others-and wondered if they could be fair.
“You hold her life in your hands. Listen carefully. Think for yourself. Be fair.”
Dallas Police Officer Eddie Castille swore to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God” and sat in the witness stand. Castille was in his midtwenties, Hispanic, a young cop eager to please, and still under the impression that he could make a difference on the streets of Dallas. He was the prosecution’s first witness. Ray Burns addressed him from the podium.
“Officer Castille, what is your position with the Dallas Police Department?”
“Patrol officer.”
“Were you patrolling the Harry Hines vicinity of Dallas on the afternoon of Sunday, June sixth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And during that patrol did you come upon an abandoned Mercedes-Benz?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please tell the jury what you did next.”
“I saw the vehicle parked on a side street and pulled up to it. We don’t generally see cars like that in the Harry Hines area, except at the strip joints. The vehicle was unoccupied, so I ran the plates. Dispatch came back, said it hadn’t been reported stolen, said it was registered to a Mack McCall.”
“As in Senator Mack McCall?”
“Yes, sir, that’s what dispatch said, but I didn’t know who that was.”
That brought light laughter from the courtroom and a self-deprecating shrug from the senator.
“And then what did you do?”
“The registration address was in Highland Park, so the duty sergeant said he would call Highland Park PD and have them go over to the residence.”
“And did that end your involvement with this case?”
“Yes, sir, other than waiting for the car to be towed to impound.”
“And what time was this?”
“Approximately one P.M.”
“Thank you, Officer Castille. No further questions.”
Judge Buford turned to Scott, who said, “No questions, Your Honor.”
“Mama, you okay?”
Instead of going out each day for lunch, the defense team had decided to eat lunch with the defendant. So they were now in the small bare conference room, eating the ham and cheese sandwiches the girls had made that morning. Scott pulled his coat off the chair back and wrapped it around Shawanda’s shoulders. His client was having chills again.
“Yeah, baby.”
“Why can’t you have your medicine?”
“Don’t know.”
“Mama, the jury people keep looking over at me.”
“That ’cause you so pretty.” She warmed and she said, “How the trial going, Mr. Fenney?”
“Nothing much this morning, Shawanda.”
“Mama, that Mr. Burns, he’s a little prick. He stood right up there and lied to those jury people. He told them you killed that McCall boy, just like he meant it.”
“He did, baby.”
After the lunch break, Ray Burns, the little prick, called Sergeant Roland James of the Highland Park Police Department as the prosecution’s second witness. Sergeant James was one of those middle-aged cops who had long ago made his peace with the fact that he wasn’t going to make a difference, so he would just ride out his shift until his pension kicked in. He testified that he had been on duty on the afternoon of Sunday, June 6, and had taken the call from the Dallas PD regarding the McCall Mercedes-Benz. He had arrived at the McCall estate at one-thirty P.M.
“Sergeant James,” Ray Burns said, “when you arrived at the McCall residence, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“No, sir-except that the front gates were open.”
“What did you do?”
“I drove in, went up to the front door, and rang the doorbell several times. No one answered. I tried the door, but it was locked. So I walked around to the back of the house and found the back door open. I stepped inside the residence and called out, but no one answered.”
“What did you do then?”
“I commenced searching the residence, the ground floor first. Nothing was disturbed, and I found no one. I
