jail, Mr. Lund.”
Scott stepped to the prosecution table, removed the blonde wig from the evidence bag, and handed it to Shawanda.
“Your Honor, may the defendant put on the wig?”
“Yes.”
Shawanda pulled the wig on. Scott returned to the podium and pointed at Shawanda.
“Mr. Lund, you saw the defendant wearing that wig that night-that’s the only way you’d know to call her ‘Blondie.’ You saw her get into Clark’s car. You followed them to the McCall mansion in Highland Park. You parked out of sight on the estate. You figured Clark couldn’t get into too much trouble with a black hooker. Oh, he might slap her around, but what’s she gonna do, call the cops? She wasn’t an SMU coed, she was just a hooker. So you sat outside while Clark had his fun.
“But then you saw the defendant drive off in Clark’s Mercedes. You ran inside and upstairs to Clark’s bedroom and you found Clark lying naked on the floor and holding his balls. And you…you laughed at him. The little rich boy got kneed in the balls by a black hooker, that was pretty damn funny. So you laughed at Clark. You mocked him. Did you call him a little fuckup?”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Clark didn’t like that, did he, someone like you mocking him? You were just an employee, and employees don’t mock Clark McCall. So he cursed you. You outweighed him by, what, a hundred pounds? But the alcohol and cocaine made him brave and getting beat up by a hooker made him mad, so he cursed you just like he cursed her. And then he…what? What else did he say to you? What could he say that would make you want to kill him?”
Scott snapped his fingers and pointed at Delroy.
“He threatened to get you fired. He was gonna tell Daddy and get you fired. Now, maybe he could, maybe he couldn’t, but you couldn’t take the chance. Because what would you do if he did get you fired, go back to the DEA? Not with your record. Your job prospects weren’t exactly bright, were they, Mr. Lund? Hell, if you got fired, your best hope for a job would be as a security guard at Wal-Mart. Delroy Lund, former big-shot DEA agent chasing Mexican drug lords on the border reduced to chasing shoplifters in a parking lot. That was your future without Senator McCall, wasn’t it? And that pissed you off, didn’t it, that little rich boy lying naked there on the floor, threatening your future? That little fuckup!
“Things got out of hand again, didn’t they, Mr. Lund? Clark got in your face just like that Mexican boy in Del Rio. Rage took over. You wanted desperately to kill Clark McCall. You saw a pistol lying there on the floor. You pulled your handkerchief from your pocket. You wrapped it around the pistol and picked the pistol up with your right hand. You stepped over to Clark. You reached down with your left hand and you grabbed the little fuckup’s hair and yanked his head up. Then you put the gun to his forehead above his left eye. And you pulled the trigger. You killed Clark McCall just like you killed that Mexican boy in Del Rio, didn’t you, Mr. Lund?”
Delroy’s eyes again went to Senator McCall. Scott turned and watched as bodyguard and senator stared at each other for a long moment; then McCall’s eyes dropped. His face sagged and he suddenly looked old, either from the realization that his own bodyguard had murdered his son or that his dream of living in the White House was over for good. Scott returned to Delroy.
“You thought the defendant would be blamed. Her gun, her fingerprints, but you didn’t know one critical fact. You didn’t know she was left-handed. That’s what happened that night. Things got out of hand and you killed Clark McCall. Didn’t you, Mr. Lund?”
Scott paused. All twelve jurors were leaning forward as if bracing against a wind. Judge Buford had turned in his chair and was focused intently on the witness. Ray Burns’s expression said he knew his coveted Washington assignment had just been lost. Bobby and Karen and Shawanda were practically on top of the defendant’s table. Dan Ford’s elbows were resting on the back of the pew in front and his hands were folded, as if praying. Boo and Pajamae were holding hands like finalists in a beauty pageant. The entire courtroom was waiting to hear Delroy Lund confess to killing Clark McCall. Scott decided Delroy needed a little push; he decided to get in Delroy’s face.
He grabbed the crime scene photo of Clark McCall from the defendant’s table and asked the judge for permission to approach the witness. When the judge nodded, Scott walked to the witness stand and dropped the photo in Delroy’s lap under his now downcast eyes. Then he got in Delroy’s face.
“Come on, Delroy, admit it! I know you killed Clark! This jury knows you killed Clark! Even the senator knows you killed Clark!”
Delroy’s face was red and sweaty. His breathing became faster and labored. His blood pressure was rising, causing the veins in his bald head to protrude like blue ropes against his white skin. His meaty hands closed in on the photograph in his lap and crumpled it into a ball, mashing it mightily as if trying to pulverize the memory of Clark McCall into pulp. Scott knew things were about to get out of hand; Delroy’s rage would soon take over and he would scream: Yeah, I killed Clark! Yeah, I killed that little fuckup!
But when Delroy’s big bald head finally turned up, his eyes were defiant. He said, “Then prove it.”
“The defense rests, Your Honor.”
Ray Burns tried to save his Washington job by calling FBI Agent Henry Hu to the stand again and eliciting somewhat reluctant testimony that a left-handed person could have fired the murder weapon with her right hand. When Ray sat down, Scott stood and picked up the nearest document.
“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”
“Yes, Mr. Fenney.”
Scott walked around the defendant’s table and toward the witness stand, and at the last moment, stumbled on an imaginary obstacle, tossing the document to the floor next to the witness stand. As Scott righted himself, Agent Hu, courteous as always, got out of the chair, took two steps, leaned over and picked up the document. Standing no more than two feet from the jury box, Agent Hu held the document out with his right hand.
Scott said, “Agent Hu, are you right-handed?”
Agent Hu realized his silent testimony, that he had picked up the document with his right hand because that was the natural thing to do, what anyone would do, even Clark McCall’s killer. He smiled slightly.
“Yes, I am.”
“No further questions.”
Karen and Bobby were cooking pasta in the kitchen, the girls were taking their baths, and Scott was slumped on the floor, mentally and physically exhausted. Bobby opened the refrigerator, pulled out two beers, walked over to Scott, and held one out to him.
“No matter what happens tomorrow, Scotty, you’ve done right by her.”
“Thanks, Bobby. And just so you know, I did this for Shawanda. Not to get back at Mack McCall or Dan Ford. For her.”
“Thanks for telling me that, Scotty. I needed to know.”
“I know. And thank you, Bobby.”
“For what?”
“For doing this, being part of this, working your tail off even though you’re not getting paid.”
The beer halfway to his mouth, Bobby froze: “I’m not getting paid?”
After prayers, Pajamae opened her eyes and said, “Mr. Fenney, I don’t want that McCall man to be the president.”
Scott smiled. “Me neither.”
“And that Delroy, he’s a bad man, isn’t he, Mr. Fenney?”
Boo said, “He killed Clark?”
“He is and he did.”
“Is he going to jail?”
“I don’t know.” Scott stood. “You girls go to sleep. We’ve got another big day tomorrow, closing arguments, maybe a verdict.”
“Mama might get out tomorrow?”
“She might. But she might not.”
Pajamae thought about that, then said, “Thanks, Mr. Fenney.”
“For what, baby?”
“For caring about my mama.”
