“To get away before he hit me again.”
“And you went home to your daughter like nothing happened?”
“’Cause nothing happened.”
“Ms. Jones, do you really expect this jury to believe you?”
Shawanda looked at the jurors and said in a soft voice: “No, sir, I don’t expect no one gonna believe me.”
On his way upstairs to tuck the girls in for the night, Scott stopped at the small TV on the kitchen counter where the late news was replaying the day’s events at the trial. An artist’s sketch of Shawanda was on the screen. The reporter said that the defendant was quite beautiful and had comported herself well on the stand. The jurors, he said, were attentive and respectful and, by the end of the day, thoroughly confused by the idea of a killer who was probably right-handed and a defendant who was certainly left-handed. “If Shawanda Jones didn’t kill Clark McCall,” the reporter asked, “who did?”
Upstairs, Scott was leaning over the bed, tucking the girls in, when Pajamae said softly, “Mr. Fenney, I know what my mama does now, with her tricks.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “Mama lets them touch her private parts, put their private parts in hers. That’s what sex is, isn’t it, Mr. Fenney?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Why, Mr. Fenney? Mama always tells me never ever to let a boy touch my private parts. Why does she let men touch hers?”
“It’s like you said, Pajamae: she loves you, but she doesn’t love herself.”
“Mama, she’s had a sad life, hasn’t she, Mr. Fenney?”
“Yes, she has.”
“Now I know why she’s so sad always. She’s never had anyone who loved her all over, not just her private parts.”
“No, she hasn’t.”
“But she looked pretty today, didn’t she?”
“Very pretty.”
“Pretty enough to marry?”
Boo sat up. “A. Scott, we want to live together, with you and her mother. Wouldn’t that be a wonderfully happy ending?”
Scott sat on the edge of the bed. So many times he had fudged the truth with Boo, but after three days of a murder trial, she and Pajamae could handle the truth.
“Girls, happy endings happen in fairy tales, not in real life.”
TWENTY-NINE
Shawanda looked equally stunning the next morning in Rebecca’s tan suit. Scott was standing beside her in the courtroom, all eyes on him but his eyes on her. She had told him the truth. But Scott was her lawyer and he knew, as all lawyers know, that the truth seldom prevails in a court of law. Bobby was right. When the jurors retired to decide Shawanda’s fate, they would ask each other one question: If Shawanda Jones didn’t kill Clark McCall, who did? They needed an answer. But Scott didn’t have an answer. He didn’t even have a clue.
So he went fishing. When a lawyer takes a deposition in civil litigation and doesn’t have a clue, he goes fishing. He asks every imaginable question and then some, hoping the witness will slip up and tell him something he didn’t know. It never works. But Scott threw out his fishing net anyway.
“The defense calls Mack McCall.”
Ray Burns exploded out of his chair. “Objection. Senator McCall is not on the witness list.”
“That’s true, Mr. Fenney,” the judge said. “Do you have a good reason for calling a witness who is not on the list?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Burns is trying to have my client executed. I’d like to keep him from doing that.”
Judge Buford’s mouth turned up in half a smile. “Very well. Overruled.”
Senator McCall slowly rose from his seat in the second row of the spectator section, adjusted his coat and tie, and walked past Scott without so much as a glance. After taking the oath, he sat in the witness chair as if he were having his portrait taken.
“Senator McCall, your son had a history of alcohol and drug abuse, is that correct?”
“Clark had some problems with substance abuse, but he had overcome them.”
“Did he also have some problems with rape?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.”
“Do you know a woman named Hannah Steele?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Have you ever heard that name, Hannah Steele?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Have you ever paid money to someone named Hannah Steele?”
“No.”
“Are you aware that Hannah Steele filed a criminal complaint against Clark a year ago, alleging that he had beaten and raped her?”
“I’m not aware of any such thing. Do you have a copy of this complaint?”
“Senator McCall, did you pay Hannah Steele five hundred thousand dollars to drop her rape complaint against Clark and move out of Dallas?”
The senator stared directly at Scott and did what only a politician could do better than a lawyer. He lied.
“Of course not.”
“Did you pay six other women to drop their rape complaints against Clark?”
“Do you have any names to go with your allegations, Mr. Fenney? You made these false statements on national TV, but you have no evidence to back up your allegations, do you?”
Scott glanced over at Dan Ford. His former father figure and senior partner sat there without any outward acknowledgment that a U.S. senator was committing perjury. Dan Ford knew the women’s names because he had personally paid off all seven. But, as Scott well knew, the attorney-client privilege allowed an attorney to hide his clients’ misdeeds, everything from letting lead leach into a river to committing perjury in a federal court; so Dan Ford remained silent. Scott turned back to McCall.
“Answer the question, Senator.”
“No, I did not pay other women.”
“Did Clark have an apartment in Washington?”
“Yes, he did.”
“He lived there when he was in Washington tending to FERC business?”
“Yes.”
“Did you expect Clark to attend your campaign kickoff on Monday, June seventh, in Washington?”
“Yes. He said he’d be there.”
“Did you know Clark had come to Dallas on Saturday, June fifth?”
“No. Not until the FBI called.”
“Were you surprised to learn he was in Dallas?”
“I was surprised to learn he was dead.”
“Clark returned to Dallas often?”
“Yes. He didn’t like Washington.”
“Clark would just fly back to Dallas on a whim, without telling you?”
“Yes. Clark was…impulsive.”
“And when he was in Dallas, he lived in your Highland Park mansion?”
“Yes.”
