Agent Hu’s expression revealed his realization. “Yes, most likely the killer would have been right- handed.”
“The killer grabbed Clark’s hair with his left hand and held the gun with his right hand, correct?”
“Yes, that would be correct.”
“One other thing, Agent Hu. The medical examiner testified that there was a contusion around Clark’s right eye, as if he had been hit with a fist.”
“Yes, there was.”
“As a forensic expert, is it more likely that the person who hit Clark’s eye was right- or left-handed?”
“Left-handed.”
“So the person who punched Clark McCall was left-handed, but the person who shot him was right- handed?”
“Yes, that would be the most likely scenario.”
Scott called FBI Agent Edwards to the stand again.
“Agent Edwards, you testified that you arrested the defendant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that you took her statement?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You typed what she said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then she read it over and signed it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With which hand did she sign her statement?”
Agent Edwards thought for a moment, then said, “Her left hand.”
The jurors had yet to see the defendant in person. They had seen her mug shots and pictures in the newspapers and on television, but they had not seen her. And they needed to see her and hear her, to listen and watch as she denied killing Clark McCall. Scott knew he had to put Shawanda on the stand, the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution notwithstanding, but he wanted to give her the best possible chance of success. So he had done two things: he had persuaded the judge to allow her methadone treatment, and he had kept her out of court until this moment.
Now all eyes-those of the judge and the jurors and the prosecutors and the spectators-were focused on the door at the side of the courtroom, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Shawanda Jones. Boo and Pajamae and Karen had been allowed in her cell-after being searched by a female guard-to help Shawanda get dressed. They had come into the courtroom a few minutes ago. Boo gave Scott another thumbs-up.
The door opened and a murmur ran through the room. Shawanda did not look like the heroin addict Scott had seen earlier that morning; she looked stunning and young. Scott had forgotten she was only twenty-four, the heroin had aged her so. But today she had recaptured her youth. She was wearing Rebecca’s navy blue suit, Rebecca’s high heels, and Rebecca’s makeup; her hair was fluffed lightly and brushed smooth; her eyes were sharp and alert. She looked at Scott and smiled. Shawanda looked like Halle Berry on a very good day.
The jurors’ eyes followed her as Ron escorted her over to the defendant’s table and pulled out her chair. She sat daintily and Ron pushed her chair in. She turned and looked at each juror, one by one, and they looked at her. Their first impression was a good one. Scott glanced back at the McCalls: the senator’s face revealed his worry, Jean’s face her jealousy. Beside them, Dan Ford’s face showed renewed interest in the proceeding.
Scott stood and said, “The defense calls Shawanda Jones.”
Shawanda stood and walked to the witness stand, took the oath, and sat down. Scott stood at the podium.
“Ms. Jones,” he said, “are you left-handed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you kill Clark McCall?”
“No, sir, Mr. Fenney. I did not.”
“All right, Ms. Jones, let’s talk about your life. Where were you born?”
“In the projects.”
“The projects in South Dallas, same place you now reside?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was your mother’s name?”
“My mama, she was called Dorena.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“Mr. Fenney, you know I don’t know that.”
“Your mother and father, they weren’t married?”
“No, sir. My daddy, he was a white man my mama worked for. She cleaned his office.”
“Okay, so you were born illegitimate?”
“No, sir, I was born in a hospital, Parkland.”
“Uh, okay. You never knew your father, correct?”
“No, sir.”
“You grew up in the projects?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your mother died when you were thirteen?”
“Something like that.”
“What did she die of?”
“No doctor.”
“No, I mean, did she die of cancer or what?”
“No, sir, she died ’cause she ain’t got no doctor. She fall over and we call for the ambulance and no one come.”
“And so you raised yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you fell in with a bad crowd.”
“Only crowd we got in the projects, Mr. Fenney. People got nothing to do, they get in trouble.”
“And you got in trouble.”
“Eddie, he my trouble.”
“Eddie was your child’s father?”
“Yes, sir. White man selling dope in the projects, seen me one day, when I was fourteen. He like what he seen, so he give me some dope and I let him touch me.”
“And Eddie gave you heroin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you became addicted at age sixteen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And by that time you were a prostitute?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
Her eyes dropped. “Mens, they think they gonna find all they been missing in they lives between Shawanda’s legs. Ain’t so.” She looked up. “It the only thing men ever want from me.”
“Ms. Jones, do you have a daughter?”
“Why, you know that, Mr. Fenney. She staying with you.”
The teacher and the housewives smiled. Scott turned to Pajamae behind him and gestured for her to stand. Pajamae stood, the most innocent expression imaginable on her face.
“Is she your daughter?”
“Yes, sir, that my baby.”
Pajamae turned to the jury and curtsied. Now every juror was smiling. The kid was good.
They broke for lunch before beginning Shawanda’s testimony about the night Clark McCall was murdered. Shawanda was not sitting on the floor with the girls, but at the table with Scott and Bobby and Karen, being very
