Bobby came by at nine on Monday morning. He gave Scott the once-over and said, “You’re wearing jeans and a polo shirt to a pretrial conference with the judge?”
“What’s Buford gonna do, fire me?”
“Good point.”
They walked out the back door just as Louis was walking in. After almost three weeks living in the garage and nonstop pleading by Scott, Louis had finally relented and agreed to come inside the house for his meals. Pajamae was cooking breakfast.
When Scott turned the Volkswagen south on Turtle Creek Boulevard, Bobby asked, “How do you like the Jetta?”
“Well, the Ferrari could do zero to sixty in four-point-five seconds and the Jetta takes half a day, but hey, this little baby gets great gas mileage.” Bobby laughed, but turned sober when Scott said, “Why aren’t you mad at me?”
“For what?”
“For quitting on you back then.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “What good would that do? You were gone. Didn’t know what to do, so I married the first girl who said yes. Lasted less than a year, took her that long to figure out she’d married a loser. Second wife, we got married four years after the first divorce. She’s the sister of the guy who owns the bar next door to my office, Mexican girl, most beautiful woman I ever saw naked. Problem was, I wasn’t the only guy seeing her naked. She was stepping out with most of the guys at the bar. Some of them were my clients. Still are.”
Bobby made a face.
“Is that a conflict of interest?”
“They repo your suits, too?”
Ray Burns had that same smart-ass expression on his face. Scott and Bobby had met him outside Judge Buford’s chambers, where the pretrial conference would take place.
“Shit, Scott, why didn’t you just stick a gun to your head and blow your brains out like your girl did to Clark? Would’ve been a hell of a lot less painful.”
“What are you talking about, Ray?”
“Throwing your career away for her. Jesus, were you really making seven-fifty a year? And driving a Ferrari? What, you got a death wish or something?”
Scott glared at Ray Burns as he stepped past him and entered Judge Buford’s chambers, but he heard Bobby say, “Ray, your mouth is writing checks your body can’t cash.”
“Jury selection on the nineteenth, opening statements on Monday the twenty-third,” Judge Buford said. “Anything else, gentlemen?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Scott said. “Mr. Burns is persisting in claiming that the alleged crime is eligible for the death penalty when that is clearly not the case.”
Ray Burns shrugged. “Our position is that the victim was an officer of a federal agency, and the defendant killed him in the perpetration of a robbery.”
“Give me a break, Ray. Clark McCall was with a prostitute. The statute requires that the officer be engaged in the performance of official duties. And she didn’t commit robbery. She only took the thousand dollars Clark owed her. He had another sixteen hundred on him. She didn’t take that or anything else in the house.”
“She took his car.”
“Only to get back to her part of town.”
“She had his skin under her fingernails.”
“She scratched him when he attacked her. She’s not denying she was there.”
“But she’s denying she pulled the trigger, even in self-defense. See, Scott, if she’d come clean about that, maybe we’d be willing to discuss dropping the death penalty.”
“Using the death penalty to coerce a confession-that’s prosecutorial misconduct, Ray.”
Ray shrugged. “We call it prosecutorial discretion, Scott.”
“You’re full of shit, Ray,” Scott said.
“And you’re unemployed.”
“Gentlemen,” Judge Buford said as Scott fought back the urge to punch the Assistant U.S. Attorney. “The death penalty has been well briefed by Mr. Burns for the government and by Mr. Herrin, I presume”-Judge Buford eyed Scott over his reading glasses-“for the defense. We will address that issue if and when it becomes necessary. Anything else?”
“No, sir,” Ray Burns said.
“No, Your Honor,” Scott said.
“Fine. We’ll reconvene on the nineteenth.”
The three lawyers stood to leave, but the judge said, “Scott, may I speak with you alone?” Buford turned to Ray. “If you have no objection, Mr. Burns?”
“No, sir, I have no objection.”
Ray and Bobby exited the chambers and shut the door.
“Sit down, Scott.”
Scott sat. Judge Buford stared at him like a psychiatrist addressing his patient. “You holding up okay?”
Scott lied: “Yes, sir.”
“I’ve read what’s happened. I suppose all of Dallas has. They really deported your maid?”
“Yes, sir. She’s down in Nuevo Laredo, waiting on a green card. I’ve done everything, but the INS says they’re backlogged.”
“Scott, if I had any idea all this would happen, that you’d lose your job, I would’ve never appointed you. I’d expect something like that from McCall, but Dan Ford…” His shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “I don’t know what’s become of the legal profession. When I was practicing, handling a case like this, it meant something. Now it’s to be avoided because it might hurt the firm’s business.”
He looked at Scott with an expression of genuine puzzlement.
“Do lawyers today care about anything except money?”
Scott spoke the truth: “No, sir, not in my experience.”
The judge grunted. “Scott, may I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure, Judge.”
“Your speech, that day at the bar luncheon…did you mean it, what you said about defending the innocent, protecting the poor, fighting for justice?”
Lie or tell the truth? Scott saw in the judge’s eyes the desperate hope that he had meant it, so his first inclination was to do what experienced lawyers do often and well: lie. But the judge needed to hear the truth today. So A. Scott Fenney, Esq., went against fourteen years of legal training and told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“No, sir. Not a word. I said what those lawyers wanted to hear.”
The judge nodded solemnly and said, “I appreciate your honesty, Scott. I’m letting you off the case.” The judge’s eyes dropped to his docket sheet. He began writing. “I’ll substitute Mr. Herrin. He seems capable. He’s certainly written some good briefs.”
Two months ago, Scott would have jumped for joy at the judge’s words. But now he sat stunned and suddenly afraid of losing his last client, even a nonpaying client, because a lawyer without a client is just a man.
“Judge, I know I’m not the lawyer you are, or the lawyer my mother wanted me to be…hell, I’m not even the lawyer I wanted to be. But I’m not a quitter. I never quit in a game, I’ve never quit on anything in my life. I’ll play it out.”
The judge’s eyes came back up, and now he glared at Scott.
“This isn’t a goddamn football game, Scott!”
Scott recoiled at the judge’s harsh voice.
“This case isn’t about you, your life, you proving something to yourself or Dan Ford or Mack McCall! This case is about Shawanda Jones, about her life! She’s the defendant! It’s her right to counsel, goddamnit!”
The judge stood abruptly, stepped to the window, and stared out. After a time, he spoke softly.
“I’m an old judge who needs to retire and tend to his garden. But a case like this comes along, and I know I can still contribute to justice, one human being at a time-and that’s how justice is served, Scott, one person at a time. Today we’re here to protect Shawanda Jones. That woman is my responsibility as long as she’s in the custody of the federal government. Which arrested her, took her from her home and child, and is putting her on trial for her life. Now, maybe she did it, maybe she didn’t, I don’t know. But until the jury speaks, she’s innocent in the eyes of the law-and thus in my eyes. And I will protect her. That’s my duty. And her lawyer’s duty is to defend her, to make damn sure the government proves she did it, beyond all reasonable doubt. That’s what the Constitution requires, a lawyer standing up to the government on behalf of a citizen. That’s what it means to be a lawyer, Scott.”
The judge returned to his desk and sat.
“When I was practicing, I had half a dozen cases like this, where the defendant’s guilt was truly in doubt, and in each case I made damn sure the government had to prove its case. Which the government did not do. They were innocent, and they were acquitted. Six people, Scott, six human beings whose lives I saved. I cared about those people, and I care about Ms. Jones. I’m not gonna die rich, Scott, but those few cases, they’re my contribution to justice. They’re what made my life worthwhile. Ms. Jones needs a lawyer who cares about her, someone to stand up for her, someone who understands the honor of defending an American citizen facing a death sentence. She needs her hero. You were such a football player, I thought you might be such a lawyer. I was wrong.” The judge picked up his pen. “You’re off the case. I’ll appoint Herrin and postpone the trial.”
Scott jumped up and leaned over the judge’s desk.
“Judge, you can’t postpone the trial! It’ll kill her! She’s barely hanging in now. I’ve been telling her it’ll be over soon. If you postpone the trial, she’ll die in her cell!”
The judge sat back, a curious expression on his face.
“What’s this, concern for your client?”
“You’re right, Judge, I haven’t thought about her. But I’m a damn good lawyer, and she needs me.”
Judge Buford removed his reading glasses and wiped them with his white handkerchief. He replaced them and gazed at Scott.
“She’s a heroin addict, you know that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you file a motion to have her transferred to the prison hospital, for drug treatment?”
“I…I never thought about it.”
“Well, I did. She refused. She wants to be close to her daughter. You ever see a heroin addict go through withdrawal?”
“No, sir.”
“Go downstairs and look. She’s going through hell, alone in her cell, so she can see her daughter. What’s that tell you about her? Tells me there’s something good inside that woman, that maybe we need to look past the prostitution and the heroin and not just assume she’s guilty, that maybe we ought to give her the benefit of the doubt. Beyond all reasonable doubt, Scott.” He sighed. “So I’ve got Burns trying to send her to death row on his asinine legal position, which the appeals court will probably uphold, and I’ve got you. There’s no hope for him-he’s the worst kind of lawyer, a political animal, using the law to gain power over the people. And you, A. Scott Fenney…what’s the A stand for, anyway?”
“Nothing.”
The judge grunted. “You don’t want power; you just want money. So the question I’ve got to answer is, Is there hope for you? I know you bring her daughter up here to see her, the guards say three, four times a week. That’s good. And that you took her in, to live in your Highland Park home. That’s very good.”
The judge paused; a chuckle escaped.
“You’re probably not up for citizen of the year in Highland Park, are you? But that tells me there’s something good inside you, too, Scott, that perhaps there’s still hope for you, that maybe you won’t become another Dan Ford. That one day you might make your mother proud.”
The judge fell silent and stared at Scott in the same way all those college coaches who had come to the Fenney rent house to recruit him had stared, seeing him in the flesh, trying to size him up, figure him out, decide if he was the real deal. Then Buford abruptly waved Scott off and said, “Go away.”
“Wh… what? ”
“Go think about it. I’ve got hearings until noon. You come back then-but only if you’re ready to be her lawyer. If you don’t show, I’ll substitute Herrin and postpone the trial.”
Outside, Bobby and Ray were waiting.
“What’s up?” Bobby said.
Scott shook his head. “Personal.” Then he addressed Ray Burns. “You’re being a prick, Ray.”
“Yeah, Scott, a prick with a career. A death penalty gets me an office in D.C.”
“How do you sleep with yourself?”
Ray laughed. “Uh-oh, a born-again lawyer. Eleven years you spend every waking minute billing hours, making boatloads of money, living in a mansion, driving a Ferrari-how much did that cost your clients? Then you get fired and suddenly you see the light like a dying man: I wanna do good, Lord! Bullshit, Scott. You don’t give a flying fuck about her. She’s just a nigger, right? Two months ago, you were trying to bail on her faster than you can spit, now you’re gonna be her hero? Tell it to Oprah. Oh, and I don’t sleep by myself, Scott, I sleep with a gorgeous redhead from accounting. Who you sleeping with? Not your wife; she’s sleeping with her golf pro.”
Scott lunged for Ray, but Bobby jumped in between them.
“Hell, Scott,” Ray said with a little laugh, “don’t worry. The bitch probably won’t live through withdrawal.”
In one quick movement, Bobby released Scott and punched Ray in the mouth. Ray fell back against the wall.
Bobby said, “I told you, Ray.”
“I’m real worried about her, Mr. Fenney,” Ron the guard said. “I’m thinking maybe I made a mistake, taking her H.”
They were standing outside Shawanda’s cell. Inside, she was lying on her bed facing the far wall, curled up in a ball, her entire body shivering uncontrollably. She was groaning as if she were dying, her skin glistened with sweat, and her legs kicked involuntarily.
“That’s why they call it kicking the habit,” Bobby said. “Right now, she’d give everything she has in life for one fix.”
Bobby was rubbing his right fist. “Hitting someone hurts.”
“I’m proud of you, Bobby.” Scott pointed the Jetta toward Highland Park and said, “You know what pisses me off the most?”
“The Ferrari?”
“No, about Burns.”
“What?”
“The prick’s right. About me.”
Bobby worked his hand and said, “What did Buford want?”
“He wanted to take me off the case. Said he was going to appoint you.”
“You still want out?”
“No. I told Buford that, but he told me to think about it, come back at noon, tell him if I’m ready to be her lawyer.”
They were silent until they exited downtown. Then Bobby said softly: “I can’t try this case, Scotty. I’m not good enough. She needs you.”
An hour later, Scott left the house by the back door and ran west on Beverly Drive. It was exactly eleven A.M.; he had sixty minutes to make the biggest decision of his life.
Scott turned south on Lakeside Drive and ran past the stately old mansions that had stood for almost as long as Highland Park had existed. The homes sat higher than the street and looked down on a little park and Turtle Creek, where Scott often took Boo to skip rocks across the water.
Scott headed west on Armstrong Parkway a short distance, then turned north on Preston Road and ran up the sidewalk, the road to his left and to his right the massive wall that shielded the grand estates of Trammell Crow and Jerry Jones and Mack McCall and-
Tom Dibrell.
Scott had damn near run right into the long silver Mercedes as Tom exited his estate and stopped to check for traffic, blocking the sidewalk. They stared at each other across a distance of just a few feet, Tom wearing a suit and tie but cool in the air-conditioned luxury of a German sedan, Scott wearing only shorts and running shoes and sweating profusely in the hundred-degree heat. For eleven years they had talked daily; they had traveled the country, negotiating deals, making deals, and closing deals; they had celebrated victories and lamented defeats; they had eaten together and gotten drunk together; but they had never been friends. Successful lawyers, Scott now knew, have rich clients, not loyal friends.
Now, seeing this man who had given him his identity and had taken it away, Scott saw a sad man. This man had had four wives, but none of them had made him happy. He had six children by three of those wives, children who chose not to live in this fabulous estate with their father, because their father loved his skyscraper more than he loved them. He was a man who had lawyers, but not friends. Who had money and everything that money could buy, but little happiness. Three weeks ago, after Tom had fired him, if they had crossed paths like this, Scott Fenney might have shot him the finger.
Today Scott only nodded and smiled at the sad man in his Mercedes-Benz.
Tom opened his mouth as if to say something, then abruptly broke eye contact and hit the accelerator hard, sending the silver sedan roaring out onto Preston Road. Scott watched Tom drive away in a cloud of exhaust fumes, then started running again. He ran north past the Village and across Mockingbird Lane. A mile later, he turned east on Lovers Lane. He knew now where this run would end.
His journey took him along the boundary of the Highland Park Country Club, its tall brick wall discouraging gawkers. But there was one break in the wall where wrought iron spanned a few feet, and Scott stopped and looked in. A foursome of old white men was putting out on the seventh green, getting a round of golf in before the summer sun sapped their strength.
Growing up in Highland Park, Scott had often looked in through this opening at the old white men playing golf; it was like window-shopping with his mother at Highland Park Village, where she couldn’t afford to shop. He’d always said that one day he would be rich enough to own a mansion in Highland Park, play golf at the country club, and buy his mother anything her heart desired at the Village. She had died before he could buy her anything at the Village, but four years ago, when Scott Fenney was admitted to the membership of the country club, he thought how proud his mother would have been of her son. For the last four years, he had played golf with pride inside these walls and looked out at others looking in.
Today the view was different.
From inside the walls, these old white men had seemed so special because they were so rich. But from outside, they just seemed old. And Scott realized that just as he was looking in at them, they were looking out at him. And in their eyes he saw their envy: they would gladly give every dollar they had to be young again, to have a head full of hair and sharp eyes and a clear mind with a memory that did not play tricks on them several times a day; to again live in a strong muscular body instead of the broken-down body they were left with; to run down the street instead of barely making it back to the golf cart; to again have a prostate gland instead of having to wear a diaper because the surgery had left them permanently impotent and incontinent; to again feel the pleasure of sex. They were looking out at a young man with his life in front of him; he was looking in at old men with nothing in front of them except the end of their lives.
The old men were tended to by their caddies, middle-aged black men wearing white canvas overalls, black men who caught the bus each morning before dawn in South Dallas and rode north to Highland Park to work at a club where they could never be a member because they had been born black. They were good men, like Louis, but they weren’t good enough for the club, these black men who fixed old white men’s divots, found their lost balls, and carried their clubs, all the while performing like actors in Gone With the Wind — “Yassuh, Mistuh Smith, that there swing sure ’nough make you look like Arnold Palmer hisself”-because making these old white men feel like Southern plantation owners meant a bigger tip. Scott had always been uncomfortable with the whole black caddie thing, but he had always employed a caddie for every round because it was club policy.
After each round, he would retire to the men’s grill for drinks and cards with these old white men, and he had felt so proud to be accepted by them, to be seen in their company, to share their special space and breathe their rarefied air. He would hang on their every word-usually jokes and commentary about “niggers” and “wetbacks” and “kikes” made without regard to the presence of the black waiters hovering about. But Scott’s eyes would always meet those of his waiter, and he would feel the heat rise within him. Yet Scott Fenney, who had played football with black guys, showered with black guys, roomed with black guys, and partied with black guys, had never stood up and told those old white men that he would no longer be available for a game of golf with a bunch of racist anti-Semitic sons of bitches in shorts. No, A. Scott Fenney, Esq., had smiled politely at their jokes and nodded approvingly at their commentary so as not to offend them. Because to offend these old white men would have been bad for business.
One day a year or so ago, Scott had asked Dan Ford whether these old white men just hated blacks, Mexicans, and Jews. Dan had laughed and said, “Oh, no, they hate lots of people, not just blacks, Mexicans, and Jews. They hate Democrats, Yankees, Californians, Asians, feminists, Muslims-anyone who’s different from them. See, Scotty, the glory days for these old farts were the fifties, back when they were young and white men ruled Dallas and the only black in their world was their oil, and the Texas Railroad Commission controlled the price of oil in the whole goddamn world. Now the best golfer in the world is black, the mayor of Dallas is a woman, and the price of oil is controlled by a bunch of Arab sheikhs. The only part of their world that’s still run by white men is this club. Drive through those gates and it’s 1950 again. And they aim to keep it that way until the day they die. Like it or not, these bastards own most of Dallas, so if you want to be a rich lawyer in this town you’ve got to join their club. Scotty, my boy, it’s just business.”
Dan Ford was wrong: it wasn’t just business; it was just bigotry. And A. Scott Fenney was wrong: his mother would not have been proud of her son.
Scott gave the members and their caddies one last glance-and noticed one of the caddies staring at him. The caddie’s face changed; he recognized Scott. He smiled and gave Scott a discrete thumbs-up. Scott thought he recognized the caddie but he couldn’t remember his name-he had never asked his caddies their names-but he returned the gesture, then ran on.
A few blocks later his thoughts were still on the club and the caddies and his good mother when he heard a high-pitched voice: “Scott! Scott!” He slowed, turned, and saw an arm waving out the window of a red Beemer: Shit, Penny Birnbaum!
“Scott! Wait!”
Penny was heading in the opposite direction down Lovers, so Scott cut through Curtis Park, two backyards, hit an alley, ran a few more blocks, and came out on Hillcrest Avenue. He turned south and ran along the western boundary of the SMU campus. He entered the campus at University Boulevard right in front of the law school.
He stopped.
Three years he had spent in that building, three years studying the law-torts, taxes, contracts, conflicts, procedure, property, and ethics, a subject he studied in school and quickly forgot in practice. The practice of law isn’t about ethics; it’s about money.
Scott began running again, past the sorority houses placed all in a row, conveniently, he had thought back then, so he wouldn’t have far to walk between girls. And he recalled all the pleasures he had experienced in those houses with those girls, and he found himself wondering, as he had never wondered before, if their lives had turned out well.
He ran along University Boulevard into the heart of the manicured campus, then turned south on Hilltop Lane, which became Ownby Drive and led him directly to the new Gerald Ford Stadium, named after the billionaire Dallas banker, not the former president. He found an unlocked gate, entered the stadium, walked to the nearest ramp, and emerged from the concrete underbelly onto the green grass.
He was alone on the field.
The best times of his life had played out in this small arena-120 yards long, 53^1 3 yards wide. And the worst times, too, he used to think. Glorious victories and crushing defeats. Moments of immeasurable joy and unspeakable sadness. He could still close his eyes and see the crowd. He could still hear them cheering and smell the freshly cut grass. He could still taste his blood. He could still feel football.
Scott climbed the steps to the spectator stands and abruptly did what he had done so often back then: he ran the stands. His arms pumping, his legs burning with pain, he ran all the way to the top. He turned and looked at the downtown skyline in the distance, the skyscrapers silhouetted against the blue sky. Dibrell Tower stood above them all, and on the sixty-second floor, Sid Greenberg was standing in Scott’s office. Sid couldn’t see Scott four miles away, but Scott shot him the finger anyway, just on principle.
Back in college, he had often run the stands at night just so he could sit at the top of the stadium and gaze at the lights of downtown, the Emerald City rising out of the endless Texas plains: Dibrell Tower outlined in blue argon lights; the lighted ball above Reunion Arena looking like a Christmas tree ornament; and Pegasus, the neon red flying horse above the old Magnolia Building. Like so many other young white men, Scott Fenney had been seduced by the lights, by dreams of getting rich in Big D. That’s what they call Dallas-“Big D”-because it’s a mecca for men with big dreams. Big dreamers come to Dallas like sinners to Jesus: you want to get saved, come to Jesus; you want to get rich, come to Dallas. Sitting right here, Scott Fenney had dreamed big.
“That ain’t bad for an old man!”
The booming voice startled Scott out of his thoughts. He searched the stadium until he saw a big black man standing on the sideline below. He looked familiar. Scott walked down the stands toward him. As he came closer, he recognized the man.
“Big Charlie, is that you?”
“Scotty Fenney, how you doing, man?”
Scott arrived and stuck out his hand, but Big Charlie wrapped his huge arms around Scott and bear-hugged him, as if Scotty Fenney had just scored the game-winning touchdown.
Charles Jackson stood six four and weighed 285 pounds-when he was an eighteen-year-old freshman. By the time he was a senior, he weighed 325. He played right guard, which required that he pull and lead running plays around either end, removing any obstacle from Scotty Fenney’s path. Scott scored the touchdowns, but Big Charlie led the way.
Big Charlie came from Tyler, an East Texas town known for its red roses and black football players. Earl Campbell was the best known, but Big Charlie was the biggest. He attended SMU instead of Texas because he didn’t want to be too far from his mama and his sisters. He drove the two hours home every Sunday morning for church and came back every Sunday night for curfew.
The last Scott had heard, Big Charlie had been drafted by the Rams. Charlie now told him that he had played two seasons and had been a knee injury away from fulfilling his dream. He had returned to SMU, where he had coached the offensive line for the last ten years. Scott had attended most of those games but he’d never noticed Big Charlie. It was a long way down to the sideline from Ford Stevens’s private skybox.
“We could always use a good running back coach,” Big Charlie said. He had read about Scott’s troubles.
“Thanks, but I’ve still got some lawyering left in me.”
“You gonna win?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think she’s innocent?”
“Of murder, but not of killing Clark.”
“Which means?”
“Worst case, she gets the death penalty. Best case, they convict her of second-degree murder, give her twenty years in prison. But she won’t live that long, without heroin or her daughter.”
“Read you took her in.”
Scott smiled. “Yeah, her name’s Pajamae; she’s a great kid. You got kids?”
Big Charlie nodded. “Two girls, seven and ten.”
“I bet you’re a good dad.”
“I love those two kids more than football.”
“They’re lucky then. Anyway, Pajamae was down in the projects by herself, so I went down there and got her-”
“You went into the projects? By yourself?”
“Yeah, in a Ferrari.”
Big Charlie’s head rolled back, and he let out a belly laugh. “White boy in a Ferrari down in the projects-that must’ve been a sight! I’m amazed you got out alive!”
“I had a friend, Louis. He ran interference for me, like you used to. He’s living with us now, too. Anyway, first night, Pajamae did my daughter’s hair in cornrows. Rebecca damn near fainted.”
Big Charlie smiled. “How you doing since she left?”
Scott shook his head. “I only cry at night.”
“That’s ’cause you got heart, Scotty. You cried when we won and you cried when we lost. You cried ’cause you cared, about winning, about your team, about me. You know, Scotty, I never told you, but you were my hero.”
Scott must have appeared shocked, because Charlie said, “No, man, I mean it. A hundred ninety-three yards against Texas-nobody does that! You wouldn’t quit and you wouldn’t let me quit. Twenty-three end sweeps that day, pulling my big butt around right end, then left end, then right end: I thought I was gonna die right out there on the field. But I’d look at you, getting the crap beat out of you every play but getting up and never quitting…man, you were tough.”
Scott sighed. “Life is tougher.”
“No, it ain’t. You’re forgetting your heart. Look inside yourself, it’s still there. Scotty, God gave you a gift back then, your athletic ability. But what we did out there, that was just a game. That girl’s life, that ain’t no game.” He put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Scotty, don’t you see? God’s given you a better gift than being a football star. You’ve got the ability to save that girl’s life.”
Scott looked at Big Charlie, who had given everything he had to Scott Fenney on a football field; and now, on a football field again, he had given Scott even more. At that moment, Scott realized that he needed Shawanda Jones as much as she needed him. He needed to be her hero. It was who he was. It was who he wanted to be again. It was what had been missing in his life. Scott was brought out of his thoughts when the bells at the Methodist church on the campus rang out.
“Shit, what time is it?” Scott asked.
“Noon, straight up,” Big Charlie said.
“Damn, I’m late!” Scott held his hand out, but Big Charlie bear-hugged him again. Scott said, “Thanks, my friend.”
And he ran toward the Emerald City.
United States District Court Judge Samuel Buford was sitting in his chambers behind his desk checking his watch. Twelve-thirty. No Scott Fenney. He wasn’t going to show.
Sam Buford sighed. He had thought there was hope for young A. Scott Fenney, Esq. But he had thought wrong. Fenney had the brains to be a hero, no doubt; and Buford had hoped he still had the heart. But now he saw that he didn’t. There was no hope for Scott Fenney…or for Shawanda Jones…or for the law.
At that very moment, Sam Buford decided to retire.
His time had come. He would retire and tend to his garden. Clear out those weeds, till the soil, plant carrots and squash and cabbage and tomatoes, maybe go organic; get that garden in good shape, something he hadn’t had time to do since…well, ever. Yep, time to put down the gavel and pick up the hoe.
He buzzed his secretary on the intercom and said he needed to dictate several orders. First order, postpone the trial date in United States of America versus Shawanda Jones. Second order, substitute counsel for Scott Fenney. But who? Herrin? The boy was a good writer, no doubt about it; but the defendant needed a hero, not a writer. He wished he were still Samuel Buford, attorney-at-law. He’d take her case. He’d be her hero. But he was Judge Samuel Buford. Soon to be a retired judge. Third order, dictate his resignation letter. As usual, Helen was prompt. In seconds the door swung open and-
Scott Fenney stood in the doorway, wearing only running shorts and drenched in sweat.
“Judge, I’m ready to be her lawyer.”
Sam Buford damn near got out of his chair and walked over to embrace the young lawyer, but that would probably violate some rule of judicial ethics, so he reined in his emotions.
“All right, son. Her life is in your hands. I hope you’re man enough to handle that responsibility.”
“I am. And, Judge, I’ll make her proud. My mother.”
Scott Fenney turned and walked out the door. Helen stepped into his place, dictation pad in hand.
“Ready, Judge?”
Buford waved her away. “Go back to your desk, Helen. I’ve got judging to tend to.” Helen turned away. “Oh, Helen, wait.” She turned back. “Get me Bob Harris on the phone.”
“Bob Harris?”
“He’s the INS regional director.” Buford leaned back and smiled. “My mama always said, one good deed deserves another.”