Scott removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Pajamae, my life is better now because of your mother. And because of you.”
THIRTY
A Scott Fenney, ESQ., stood before the twelve members of the jury and said: “When I was a boy, my mother used to read her favorite book to me at bedtime, To Kill a Mockingbird. You might’ve read it or seen the movie. It’s the story of a little girl and her father, a lawyer named Atticus Finch. He was an honorable man and an honorable lawyer, unusual even back then, in the 1930s when the story took place.
“Every night my mother would say to me, Scotty, be like Atticus. Be a lawyer. Do good. She even named me after him, Atticus Scott Fenney. Well, my mother’s dead and I’m a lawyer, but I’m no Atticus Finch. I haven’t done much good. I made a lot of money, but I didn’t make my mother proud.
“But that’s another story.
“Or maybe it’s the same story. Because this story, our story, the story playing out in this courtroom, is also about making your mother proud.
“See, in the book, Atticus was appointed to represent a black man named Tom Robinson. Tom was accused of beating and raping a white girl. Atticus showed the jury that the girl had been beaten by a left-handed man because the right side of her face was bruised, but that Tom’s left hand was disabled due to an accident years before. Atticus proved that Tom didn’t do it. And Atticus also showed the jury that the girl’s father was left-handed and a mean drunk to boot. Well, everyone in the courtroom knew that Tom didn’t commit the crime and that her father did. But the jury, twelve white men, convicted Tom Robinson anyway, just because he was a black man.
“Now, that story took place in Alabama in the thirties-in a different time and a different world, back when the color of law was black-and-white. But our story is taking place seventy years later, in Dallas, Texas. The world’s a different place today, things have changed-not everything and not everywhere and not enough, but in our courts of law things have surely changed. Judges have changed. Juries have changed. The color of law has changed. It’s no longer black-and-white. My former senior partner told me the color of law is now green. Today, he said, the rule of law is money. Money rules. And he’s right. Lawyers use the law to make money, politicians sell the law to special interests for money, people sue each other for money. Everywhere in the law, it’s all about money-except one place. Right there where you’re sitting, in that jury box. You’re not here for money. You’re here for the truth.
“And what is the truth of this story? The first truth is, Clark McCall was murdered by a right-handed person, a person strong enough to yank him up off the floor, mean enough to stick a gun to his head and look him in the eye when he pulled the trigger, and experienced enough in the ways of murder investigations to know how not to leave incriminating evidence behind. The truth is, Delroy Lund murdered Clark McCall.
“The second truth is, Delroy Lund followed Clark to Dallas, followed him down to Harry Hines, saw him pick up the defendant wearing her blonde wig, and followed them home to Highland Park. When he saw the defendant driving off in Clark’s Mercedes, he went inside. He found Clark alive, naked and holding his privates after being kicked in the groin by the defendant. He laughed at Clark and Clark got mad. Clark cursed Delroy, Delroy got mad, and Clark got killed. Things got out of hand, and Delroy killed Clark.
“And the third truth is, Shawanda Jones is innocent. Clark McCall was killed by a right-handed person. Shawanda Jones is left-handed. She didn’t do it.
“That’s the truth. That’s what the evidence shows. We’ve proved that the defendant is innocent and we’ve answered the question this trial presented: Who killed Clark McCall? Now there’s only one part of this story left and you’ve got to write it: the ending. How is this story going to end? Like To Kill a Mockingbird, with an innocent defendant convicted just because she’s black? Or are you going to write a new ending, where the color of law is not black or white or green, where truth and justice prevail even if the defendant is poor and black?”
Scott paused and glanced over at the judge for a long moment, then turned back to the jurors. He said: “Ladies and gentlemen, before Judge Buford appointed me to represent the defendant, I thought I was a winner in the game of law-and that’s how I viewed the law, as just a game. When I tried a case, I wanted to win. I wanted to beat the other lawyer. It wasn’t about truth or justice; it was just about winning…and money. But I was wrong. The law isn’t a game. It’s not about winning or money. It’s about truth and justice…and life. Today, it’s about the defendant’s life.
“This case has given me a chance to do something I had never been able to do before as a lawyer: make my mother proud. I hope I did that. I hope my mother is finally proud of me.” He paused. “And I hope you’ll make your mothers proud of you, too.”
The judge instructed the jury at 11:45. The jurors retired to the jury room for lunch and deliberations, Judge Buford to his chambers, Shawanda to her cell, and Scott, Bobby, Karen, and the girls to the house on Beverly Drive.
Scott had waited for jury verdicts many times in his career, all in civil cases where only money was at stake. While waiting for his last jury verdict, he had spent the time back in his office calculating alternate bills for his client, one at a straight hourly billing if they lost, and one with an added bonus if they won. Clients won or lost, but the lawyers always won.
This case was different.
It wasn’t about money; it was about Shawanda’s life. Twelve people were deciding whether she would live or die, whether she would spend the rest of her life in prison or free, whether Pajamae would have a mother or a memory.
The court clerk called at 1:30. The jury had a verdict.
“Ms. Jones,” Judge Buford said, “please rise.”
Shawanda Jones and her three lawyers stood and turned to the jury. Several jurors, black and brown and white, had tears in their eyes, as Shawanda did in hers. Scott felt Shawanda’s hand next to his, trembling, her entire body shaking. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
The foreperson of the jury handed the verdict to the bailiff who handed it to the judge. Judge Buford put on his reading glasses, gazed at the piece of paper, then raised his eyes to the defendant.
“In the matter of United States of America versus Shawanda Jones, the jury finds the defendant not guilty.”
Shawanda sagged and would have fallen to the floor if Scott had not caught her. She buried her face in his chest and embraced him. He held her tightly, his tears mixing with hers. Boo and Pajamae ran to them as the courtroom erupted in cheers and shouts and applause. The jurors hugged each other, reporters crowded Scott and Shawanda, Ray Burns sat at the prosecution table shaking his head, and Bobby and Karen kissed like newlyweds. Senator McCall pushed his way through the crowd and out of the courtroom. Dan Ford sat shaking his head in wonderment at the turn of events. Shawanda whispered in Scott’s ear, “That a righteous name, Atticus.”
Scott turned to the bench and his eyes met Judge Buford’s. The judge nodded at Scott and Scott nodded back.
Shawanda Jones was free. Half an hour later, they finally made their way through the mob of reporters and cameras and to the sidewalk fronting the federal building. Dan Ford was waiting there. Scott sent Shawanda and the girls ahead and walked over. Dan held out his hand and Scott took it.
“Scotty, my boy, you are one fine lawyer.”
“Dan, I’m not your boy anymore.”
“Yes, well…look, Scotty, Mack won’t be in the White House now, so why don’t you come back? You can have your old office, I’ll fix things with Dibrell and the bank, you can buy another big house, get the Ferrari back…you can go back to your old life-with a substantial raise, say a million a year. Not bad for a thirty-six-year-old lawyer. What do you say?”
There was a time. And a place. And a lawyer.
But they were no more.
“Dan, I’m just not the Ford Stevens type.”
Scott turned away from Dan Ford only to find his path blocked by another familiar face: Harry Hankin.
“Harry! How you doing, buddy?”
