scene photos had been the subject of heated pretrial arguments over their prejudicial effect on the jury. Burns wanted to introduce two dozen photos, but the judge had approved only these four, one of which was particularly graphic. Scott handed the photos to Karen, who was sitting next to him. She inhaled sharply. He forgot she hadn’t seen the photos. Which reminded Scott; he twisted in his chair, caught the girls’ attention, and gestured that it was time for them to lower their eyes. He knew the photos were coming and had discussed it with them on the drive over that morning. He told them to stare down at their feet until the photo show was over.
“Agent Owen, would you look at your computer screen and identify the photo being displayed to the jury on the overhead screen?”
Agent Owen turned in the witness chair to view the computer screen. Scott kept an eye on the jury box.
“This is the view of the crime scene from the bedroom door, as I first observed the scene. The bed is directly in front of the door, the bathroom over to the right, and the body over to the left. Only the victim’s legs are visible in this photo.”
“This is an accurate representation of the crime scene?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
The next photo came up on the overhead screen.
“Agent Owen, can you identify this photo?”
“This is a close shot of the bed, evidencing that it had recently been, uh, occupied.”
“And is this an accurate representation of what you saw?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this photo?”
“The bathroom, and it is accurate.”
“And finally, this photo.”
A collective gasp went up in the courtroom. In the jury box, the two housewives averted their eyes, the bartender grimaced, and the car salesman stared. Ray Burns had displayed his climactic photo, a close-up of Clark McCall’s body, his eyes open and vacant, a hole in his forehead, his head in a pool of blood.
“This is a close shot of the victim’s body. He was naked, no wounds evident except about the head. There is apparent swelling around the right eye, some scratch marks on the face, and the entry wound in the left forehead.”
Scott turned to the girls. They were staring down at their feet as instructed, but Pajamae’s hat brim rose slightly; she was peeking. Scott snapped his fingers at her; she looked at him. Her expression said it was too late. She had seen the photo.
Ray allowed the gruesome image to sink into the jurors’ minds before saying, “No more questions.”
For the next thirty minutes, Bobby cross-examined Agent Owen about the toxicology reports, which showed alcohol and cocaine in Clark McCall’s blood, so that the jurors would leave the courtroom that day with something on their mind other than the crime scene photos. After he passed the witness, Judge Buford adjourned for the day. Scott, Bobby, Karen, and the girls returned home; Senator McCall held a press conference on the courthouse steps. The senator spoke with the confidence of a man who knew his words would not be contradicted by Hannah Steele: “Clark was the kind of son every man dreams of having.”
“Now, Scotty, don’t get depressed,” Bobby said through a mouthful of Chinese takeout. “The first day of a criminal trial is always bad. At least he didn’t surprise us with anything.”
“I’m not depressed about the prosecution’s case, Bobby. I’m depressed about our defense. We’ve got nothing!”
They were at their designated places on the kitchen floor and the girls were at theirs.
“Carl’s still working the case.”
“Where the hell is he?”
“Del Rio.”
“What’s he doing down on the border?”
Bobby shrugged. “With Carl, you give him full rein and don’t ask questions. He always finds something.”
“I hope he finds something soon, Bobby, ’cause this isn’t looking good.”
Bobby stuck a little spare rib in his mouth, worked it over, pulled it out clean, and said, “Shit, Scotty, don’t worry about today. Tomorrow’s gonna be a lot worse.”
Boo and Pajamae were already in bed when Scott entered their bedroom to say prayers.
After prayers, Pajamae said, “One night, a man got shot outside our apartment. When the po-lice came, Mama and me, we went outside. The dead man, he had a white sheet over him. I always wondered what he looked like, that dead man. Now I know.”
“Pajamae, you promised not to look.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fenney, but I had to. They’re saying my mama killed that man. I had to look. But she didn’t do it. You believe her, don’t you, Mr. Fenney?”
Scott looked into her big brown eyes and lied, “Of course I do.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
The next morning Scott and the girls walked unimpeded into the federal building. The reporters did not shout questions. Instead, from a respectful distance the cameras silently recorded the entrance of Shawanda Jones’s lawyer and their daughters, dressed in smart short outfits, color-coordinated from head to toe. Boo, who had steadfastly refused to wear these outfits despite Rebecca’s continuing threats, had meticulously selected their wardrobes; she knew it was important to look good for Pajamae’s mother.
They again walked past Delroy Lund, looking like he hadn’t moved since yesterday, except that he was holding the current day’s sports section. They again entered the courtroom to heads turning their way, as if craning to see a bride’s entrance into the church. They again walked to the front row, where Scott deposited the girls for the morning session. And Scott again exchanged glances with the McCalls and Dan Ford. Apparently his former senior partner wanted to witness his protege’s final defeat.
Scott soon learned that Bobby was right. The second day of the trial was a lot worse than the first day. The prosecution’s first witness was the FBI agent who had made the arrest. Agent Andy Edwards, forty, professional in every way, testified on direct examination by Ray Burns that he had arrested Shawanda Jones at approximately six P.M. on Sunday, June 6, at her apartment in South Dallas; that he had advised her of her Miranda rights; and that his agents had executed a search warrant for her apartment, finding and taking into custody heroin packets, clothing, ten hundred-dollar bills, and a blonde wig.
He further testified that he had taken her to the federal detention center and that she had given a voluntary written statement admitting that she had been with the victim the night of Saturday, June 5, that she had engaged in sex with him at a mansion in Highland Park, that they had fought, that she had hit him, that she had taken the keys to his Mercedes and the thousand dollars he owed her, and that she had abandoned the car on Harry Hines Boulevard.
As Ray Burns left the podium and walked to his table, his eyes met Pajamae’s; she made a face and stuck her tongue out at him. Ray just shook his head, but two jurors, the dental assistant and the teacher, smiled. So far the girls were the best thing the defense had going for it.
Scott stood and began his cross-examination.
“Agent Edwards, what was Ms. Jones doing when you arrived at her apartment?”
“Sitting on the front steps playing with her daughter.”
Scott pointed to Pajamae in the first row.
“Is that her daughter?”
Agent Edwards looked at her and said, “Yes, sir, I believe she is.”
“Did Ms. Jones attempt to run?”
“No, sir.”
“Did she resist in any way?”
“No, sir.”
“Did she exhibit the demeanor of a murderer?”
