The Color of Law (20 page)

“I don’t have a family. I only have Mama. And Louis, he’s like an uncle only he’s not.”

Boo said, “What new black family?”

“The black family that just moved into town, the first black homeowners in the history of Highland Park.” The saleslady was now staring at Boo when a hint of recognition crossed her painted face. “You’re the Fenney girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you with that hair. Where’s your mother been lately”—her thin eyebrows raised a notch—“and your handsome father?”

“My mother’s being weird and A. Scott’s been real busy.”

“Helping my mama,” Pajamae added, and the lady’s head swiveled to her. “They say she killed the McCall boy, but she didn’t.”

The saleslady slapped her hand over her mouth.
“She’s your mother?”

Pajamae licked her ice cream cone and said, “Unh-huh. Mr. Fenney, he’s her lawyer, so everybody’s mad at him.”

The saleslady’s face suddenly looked like that boy’s face that day in the projects when he tried to get a freebie from Mama and when she refused, he called her a “white man’s whore.” As he turned to run away he ran smack into Louis—and that black boy’s face turned white. Just as this lady’s face had turned two shades whiter. She must not have known what to say, so she said, “Maybe you girls should leave now.”

“Mr. Ford wants to see you,” Sue said.

Scott grabbed his message slips and walked to the staircase. He greeted his fellow partners along the way, but all he got in return were odd stares, averted eyes, and shaking heads. No doubt they had seen his network interview last night and didn’t care for it. Fuck ’em. He found Dan standing by the window in his office.

“Dan, what’s up?”

Dan turned; his face looked like he hadn’t slept last night.

“Come in, Scotty. Shut the door.”

Scott did as instructed and said, “Dan, can you talk to Ted at the bank? He’s being a real asshole. He called the notes on the Ferrari and my house.”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Scotty, as of right now, you’re no longer a partner in the firm.”

“You’re demoting me?”

“I’m firing you.”

Dan’s words knocked the air out of Scott as fully as a football helmet in the solar plexus. Scott stumbled back and fell onto the sofa. Dan returned to the window and stared out, his hands clasped behind him. Scott struggled to find words.

“You said I was like a son to you.”

Without turning from the window: “You were. But when my son embarrassed me with that homosexual nonsense, I disowned him. Now I’m disowning you.”

“Why?”

Dan turned to face Scott; he was now an angry father figure.

“Your little spectacle last night! For Christ’s sake, Scott, what the hell were you thinking?”

“McCall tried to destroy me, that’s what I was thinking!”

“So you go on national TV and accuse the senior senator from Texas of obstruction of justice? Extortion? Bribery?”

“I was just trying to do the right thing!”

“The hell you were! I know you too well. You were giving McCall a little Scott Fenney payback. You weren’t doing it for the hooker; you were doing it for yourself. And even if you were doing the right thing, it’s no better. I told you, Scotty, this firm doesn’t exist to do the right thing; no law firm does. We don’t do the right thing; we do what’s right for our clients. And destroying Mack McCall’s presidential ambitions isn’t right for our clients. But you took care of that, didn’t you?”

“What was I supposed to do, let him take everything I have? My club memberships, my car, my house, my best client? McCall did all that.”

Dan Ford was now staring at Scott with an expression Scott had seen only once before, five years ago. Scott had stood next to Dan in a state district court as the judge read his ruling, a ruling against their client, against Ford Stevens, against Dan Ford, who had made a substantial contribution to the judge’s last campaign. Dan’s expression then and now was that of a man betrayed, but a man with the power to do something about it.

“No, Scotty, he didn’t do any of that. I did.”

“You?”

“Yes, me. When you refused to do what I asked, I wanted you to see what your life would be like without all the things success buys—
It’s a Wonderful Life
starring Scott Fenney. But you’re stubborn, Scotty, too stubborn for your own damn good. McCall asked me for a small favor, to get you to leave his son’s past in the past where it belongs, so he could be president. And I asked you for a small favor, so I could be the president’s lawyer. And after all that I’ve done for you, how did you repay me? You betrayed me.”

“
A small favor?
Dan, without that evidence, Shawanda will be sentenced to death!”

“So?”

“What, she’s just a nigger?”

Dan laughed. “Oh, yeah, I’m a racist. My son grew up wanting to be Michael Jordan and my daughter’s in love with Tiger Woods…No, it’s the other way around, my daughter wanted to be Jordan and my son’s in love with Tiger. Anyway, I’d love to have both of them as clients. Because they’re rich. Because they pay their lawyers lots of money. Scotty, the color of law isn’t black-and-white, it’s green! The rule of law is money—money rules! Money makes the law and the law protects the money! And lawyers protect the people with money!”

Dan’s face was red and his neck veins were purple cords. He paused and gathered himself.

“Scotty, this firm is my life. I built it from nothing to the richest firm in town. No one makes what we make. No one! And no one’s gonna hurt this firm, not your hooker, not you, not anyone. I’ll run over anyone who gets in my way.”

“What about me, Dan? You gonna run over me, too?”

Dan sat down in his chair, reached over and buzzed his secretary, then looked back up at Scott and said, “I think I already have.”

Scott stood in the middle of the office, surrounded by Dan’s trophy heads. Their sad eyes seemed to look down on him, as if they were saying,
We’ve saved a place up here for you
. And now Scott knew how John Walker and the others had felt standing right here when Dan had fired them without warning. He had chuckled when another lawyer had shown him John’s ad in the TV guide—one day a successful lawyer in a big firm and the next day just another shyster trying to sleaze out a living. Now his mind conjured up his own ad, situated between ones for a psychic and an escort service:
CAR ACCIDENT? DIVORCE? BANKRUPTCY? CALL A. SCOTT FENNEY, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. WE CARE. E-Z TERMS. SE HABLA ESPAÑOL.

This can’t be happening, not to me!

The door behind Scott opened and two of the three black Dibrell Tower security guards from downstairs were standing there, puzzled looks on their faces.

It was happening to him.

“Your personal belongings will be delivered to your house, Scott,” Dan said. “Firm policy.”

The game was over. Scott Fenney had lost. There was nothing more to do but to walk off the field. The guards parted and Scott walked down the corridors that he had so proudly strutted just days before, A. Scott Fenney, Esq., Tom Dibrell’s lawyer, wired on success. Yesterday, the other lawyers had greeted him like a star; today they averted their eyes as from a patient dying of AIDS. Dead lawyer walking. Scott Fenney’s legal career as he knew it was over.

He and his escorts walked down the staircase to the sixty-second floor and ran into Missy walking up, looking sexy in a tight knit dress. But she did not wink at Scott Fenney today; she did not act like they were on the brink of an affair; she acted like he had a contagious disease. They continued down to the landing, where Sue stood, holding out his briefcase and 9-iron. Before he reached her, Sid Greenberg walked up to Sue with a stack of documents.

“Sue, I’m putting these documents on your desk. Copy them and get them up to Dibrell ASAP. Put the originals in Scott’s…I mean, in my office.”

“Yes, Mr. Greenberg.”

“Sid?”

Sid spotted Scott and said, “Oh, hi, Scott. Sorry to hear the news. Good luck.”

“You’re taking my client, my secretary, my office? I taught you everything you know!”

“Yeah, Scott, you did. You taught me practicing law is just business. Nothing personal.”

“I wasn’t talking about me!”

Sid shrugged lamely and walked off. Scott turned to Sue, her hands extended toward him. Scott took his briefcase and 9-iron from her.

“Good-bye, Mr. Fenney.”

“That’s it? Good-bye? Eleven years you’ve been my secretary. Don’t you care?”

Sue got a look on her face he had never seen and she seemed to grow six inches.

“For eleven years I’ve fetched your dry cleaning and coffee, run your personal errands, paid your personal bills, shopped for gifts for your wife and child and clients, lied to clients for you…Did you care about me? About my life? You never once asked about my life. Do you know I have a handicapped child and that’s the only reason I’ve put up with you for all these years? Because I needed the money? You didn’t know and you didn’t care. Did you care when Mr. Walker got fired? No. Like every other lawyer here, you care only about yourself.”

Scott turned from this stranger standing on the marble floor in the lobby, talking to him like that in front of a gathering crowd. Followed by the two guards, he walked to the elevators and pushed the down button. The doors opened and they stepped in. One of the guards said, “What happened, Mr. Fenney?”

“I got fired.”

“’Cause of what you did, standing up for that girl?”

“Yeah.”

“I know where Mr. Ford parks his Mercedes down in the garage. You want I should flatten his tires?”

“Yeah.” Then Scott shook his head. “No.”

The doors started to shut, but at the last second a hand pushed in and the doors receded. Standing there was Sue. She said, “John Walker’s wife died last week.”

They stepped outside the store and Pajamae froze.

“Boo, there he is again.”

“Who?”

“The bald man in the black car.”

“Where?”

Pajamae motioned with her head to the parking lot. Boo turned that way, but Pajamae said, “Don’t look!”

They turned and faced the store window. In the Village, cars could park in slanted spots right at the sidewalk. Then there was a little one-way road for cars to drive around the center and then two more rows of parking in the middle of the open parking area. The bald man in the black car was parked there, maybe thirty feet away. Boo acted casual and kind of looked around at different things and finally got around to glancing at the bald man in the black car: he was staring straight at them. Boo turned away.

Pajamae was frantic. “Let’s run, Boo!”

Boo took Pajamae firmly by the arms. “No. Act normal. He can’t grab both of us, not here. He’s just trying to scare us.”

“Honey, it’s working!”

Boo started patting around her pockets.

“What are you doing?” Pajamae asked.

“I’m pretending I’m looking for something.” She threw up her hands and pointed inside the store. “Now I’m acting like I left something inside. Come on, we’ll go back in and I’ll call A. Scott. He’ll come for us.”

“He better get here fast.”

“He drives a Ferrari.”

They walked back inside and Boo went directly over to the same saleslady. “Ma’am, may I use a phone? It’s an emergency. I need to call my handsome father.”

Scott had always enjoyed the ride home at the end of each day, jumping into a $200,000 automobile, exiting the parking garage, saluting Osvaldo like the president saluting the Air Force One attendants, and pointing the Ferrari north toward Highland Park…Driving leisurely through the Uptown area just north of downtown where the singles commingled, young men and gorgeous girls, their heads swiveling his way as he passed by, envy written all over their faces, wondering what it must be like to be living a perfect life like the handsome man in the Ferrari…And finally entering the Town of Highland Park, where the kids are smart, their parents are successful, and everyone is safe and secure.

But today was different.

He wasn’t enjoying the ride home. Because at the end of the ride, he would have to tell his wife and daughter that he had been fired, that he was no longer a partner at Ford Stevens, that he would no longer be bringing home money each night, that he had lost the family fortune. That Scott Fenney was now a loser.

How could he face his wife as a loser? His daughter? His neighbors in Highland Park? Scott hit the right turn signal and braked to turn onto Beverly Drive…but at the last second he changed his mind and accelerated straight through the intersection and continued north past Highland Park Village. He couldn’t go home. Not yet. A few blocks later he turned left and pulled over in front of the Highland Park High School football stadium, where life as he knew it had begun the first day of fall football practice his freshman year.

Inside a stadium that shamed many college stadiums, this year’s team was practicing on the artificial turf. Scott cut the engine and got out of the Ferrari. He walked over to the fence and watched the boys working out on the field while the cheerleaders went through their routines on the sideline, white boys dreaming of being another Highland Park football legend like Doak Walker or Bobby Layne or Scotty Fenney and white girls dreaming of being another Hollywood starlet from Highland Park like Jayne Mansfield or Angie Harmon, but knowing that if their dreams were not realized they could always fall back on their daddies’ money, fortunes that assured them futures as bright and certain as the blue sky above. And he wondered if he had fooled himself all these years, thinking he belonged here, that his football heroics were enough to make him one of them. Maybe the son of a construction worker is always the son of a construction worker. Maybe a renter is always a renter. Maybe the poor kid on the block is always the poor kid on the block, even if he lives in a mansion. Maybe you are what you’ve always been.

His dream had begun right out there, on that very field, twenty-one years ago when he was fifteen. And that dream had ended today. And he found himself wondering, for the first time since that day so long ago, what he would do with the rest of his life.