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.”
“Do you know Delroy Lund?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Is he an employee of yours?”
“Yes, he is.”
“What does he do for you?”
“He’s my bodyguard.”
“Is that all he does, provide physical protection?”
“Sometimes he carries my luggage. Bad back.”
“Does he bribe witnesses for you?”
“No, he does not.”
“Did he bribe Hannah Steele for you?”
“No, he did not.”
“Did you send him to bribe my cocounsel, Bobby Herrin?”
“No, I did not. I don’t even know who Mr. Herrin is. Would you point him out?”
Bobby was not at the defendant’s table. He had gotten a message on his cell phone and had run out of the courtroom at the first opportunity.
Ray Burns stood. “Your Honor, is Mr. Fenney going to spend the morning insulting the senior senator from Texas or is he going to ask questions relevant to this murder case?”
“Do you have an objection, Mr. Burns?”
“Objection, irrelevant.”
“Overruled.” The judge turned to Scott. “Mr. Fenney, please tie the senator’s testimony to this case.”
Scott was thinking, I wish I knew how, when the courtroom doors opened and Bobby entered. He gave Scott a time-out gesture. Scott asked the judge for a fifteen-minute recess.
Scott walked out of the courtroom with Bobby and down the corridor to where Carl Kincaid was leaning against the wall and holding a large yellow envelope. Carl was long and lanky and wore a plaid sports coat over a golf shirt. When they arrived, Carl handed the envelope to Scott. Scott removed and examined the contents. Then he looked back at Carl.
“You know what this means?” Scott asked.
“I think I do,” Carl said. “He’s dirty.”
“How did you get all this?”
Carl smiled. “I won’t tell you how to bribe judges if you don’t tell me how to do my job.”
When the court reconvened, Scott knew how Senator McCall was tied to the murder of his son: by his bodyguard.
“Your Honor, the defense calls Delroy Lund.”
“You have no further questions for Senator McCall?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well.”
The judge nodded at the bailiff, who went outside. When the courtroom doors opened, Delroy Lund strode in like the ex-Fed he was. He was a big man and carried an attitude with him; clearly he was a cop who had banged a few heads together in his day. He walked up to the witness stand and took the oath. Then he sat down, leaned back, and crossed his legs, right ankle over left knee, like he owned the damn place. Scott saw his effect on the jurors: before he had said one word, they hated him. Which made at least thirteen people in this courtroom who hated Delroy Lund.
“We meet again, Mr. Lund.”
Scott first elicited from Delroy his background: He was fifty-one years old, born and raised in Victoria, Texas, college at Texas A amp;I, street cop in Houston for three years, then twenty years with the DEA, working in South Texas, fighting the war on drugs. Divorced, no children. Six years ago, he had retired to Senator McCall’s payroll.
“Mr. Lund, did you ever frame a suspect?”
“Nope.”
“Ever plant dope in a suspect’s home or car?”
“Nope.”
“Ever beat up a suspect?”
“Nope.”
But his eyes said yep. And the Hispanic and black jurors saw the truth in his eyes.
“You ever kill anyone?”
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
“Nine I’m sure of.”
“Might be more?”
“When you’re in a firefight with the Mexican drug cartels, you don’t stop to count.”
“Did you ever kill anyone up close and personal, face-to-face?”
“Yeah.”
“When and where?”
“Laredo, 1994.”
“What were the circumstances?”
“I was a DEA agent. He was a drug trafficker. He didn’t want to go to jail. He pulled a gun on me, I shot him first.”
The jury knew Delroy Lund was capable of killing.
“How did you feel afterward?”
“Happy. He was dead; I was alive.”
“Mr. Lund, that wasn’t the only time you killed someone up close, was it?”
Delroy’s eyes narrowed. “You talking about Del Rio?”
“Yes.”
“I was completely exonerated.”
“Being no-billed by the grand jury isn’t the same as being exonerated, Mr. Lund. It only means there wasn’t sufficient evidence to prosecute.”
Ray Burns stood. “Objection. Irrelevant. Your Honor, Mr. Lund is not on trial here today.”
Scott said, “Maybe he should be.”
“Overruled,” the judge said.
Scott turned back to the witness. “Mr. Lund, what happened the night of March thirteenth, 1998, in Del Rio, Texas?”
“I shot a suspect during a confrontation with drug dealers.”
“You shot a sixteen-year-old boy.”
“He looked older.”
Scott picked up Carl’s envelope, removed the documents, and placed them on the podium. When his background check of Delroy Lund had revealed reprimands for unnecessary use of force, Carl had decided to dig deeper. He found more dirt.
“Mr. Lund, the internal DEA incident report-”
“That’s supposed to be confidential. How’d you get that?”
“Sorry, attorney-client privilege, Mr. Lund. As I was saying, the internal DEA report states that on the night in question, you approached a group of Mexican nationals, approximately a dozen boys and girls, outside a bar in downtown Del Rio after observing them selling drugs. At least that was your story. Witnesses said you were drunk and propositioned one of the Mexican girls.”
“They lied.”
“In any event, an altercation ensued and when it was over, you had shot and killed an unarmed sixteen-year-old boy.”
“He was going for a gun.”
“The report says no gun was found at the scene.”
“His amigos took it when they ran off.”
“Did the boy mouth off to you, Mr. Lund, is that how the confrontation started?”
“The suspect refused to obey my orders. He got in my face. Things got out of hand.”
“Things got out of hand?”
“Yeah. It happens.”
“It seems to happen a lot with you, Mr. Lund. Your record shows nine deadly shootings, numerous other questionable discharges of your firearm, a dozen reprimands for unnecessary use of force, internal affairs investigations for freelancing, running interdiction operations without agency approval-you put together quite a career at the DEA, Mr. Lund.”
Delroy shook his head with disdain. “Civilians. Mr. Fenney, the war on drugs ain’t gin rummy at the country club. Mexican drug cartels are violent and ruthless narco-terrorists. They’ve killed over a hundred women in Juarez, many of them young American girls. They’ve kidnapped and killed dozens of American tourists in Nuevo Laredo and dumped their bodies in the Rio Grande. They’ve murdered border patrol agents and Catholic priests who spoke out against them. They own the police throughout Mexico and those they don’t own they kill. You want people like them running around Dallas? People like me, Mr. Fenney, we keep people like them on their side of the river.”
“That may be true, Mr. Lund, but the fact is your superiors at the DEA grew tired of your practices, didn’t they?”
“Bunch of desk jockeys who couldn’t cut it on the border.”
“Shortly after that incident in Del Rio, you were forced to retire from the DEA?”
“Yeah. By bureaucrats more concerned about getting promotions than results. I got results.”
“You got results with Hannah Steele, too, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Lund, did you bribe Hannah Steele to absent herself from this trial?”
“Nope.”
“Did you threaten to make her fish bait?”
“I don’t fish.”
“Answer the question.”
“No, I did not threaten anyone.”
“Do you know Hannah Steele?”
“Nope.”
“Did you attempt to bribe my cocounsel, Robert Herrin, to drop out of this case?”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t offer him a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Nope.”
“Did you know Clark McCall?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Honestly?”
“Why not, we’re in a court of law.”
“He was a little fu…” Delroy stopped and glanced past Scott to Senator McCall.
“A little fuckup? Isn’t that what you called Clark? Isn’t that the term you used to describe him?”
Delroy looked back at Scott and said, “He was a real nice boy.”
“A real nice boy who liked to beat and rape girls?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Where were you on the night of Saturday, June fifth, of this year?”
“D.C.”
“Washington, D.C.?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Scott picked up another document from Carl’s envelope. “Mr. Lund, I have a copy of a first-class plane ticket from Washington to Dallas, flight number 1607 on American at eight-twenty-three A.M. on Saturday, June the fifth, in the name of Clark McCall.”
“So?”
Scott picked up the next document. “So I also have a copy of another first-class plane ticket from Washington to Dallas, at eight-thirty A.M. on the same day, flight number 1815 on US Airways. It has your name on it.”
Delroy didn’t blink an eye. “Must be a mistake.”
“You think there’s another Delroy Lund running around out there?”
“You never know.”
“Clark’s flight was booked at four-thirty-seven P.M. on June fourth. Your flight was booked twenty-eight minutes later. You had someone in Clark’s office keeping tabs on him, didn’t you?”
“Nope.”
“May I see your driver’s license?”
“What?”
“Your driver’s license, would you please produce it?”
The slightest hint of unease invaded Delroy’s dark eyes. He leaned slightly to his left and reached around to his right back pant pocket. He pulled out his wallet, removed his license, and somewhat reluctantly held it out to Scott.
“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”
Judge Buford nodded. Scott walked over, took the license, and walked back to the podium. He compared the license to the next document.
“Mr. Lund, you’re sure this isn’t your plane ticket?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re sure you weren’t in Dallas on June fifth?”
“Yeah.”
Scott held up the document. “Well, then how do you explain this rental car agreement with Avis at the Dallas airport dated June fifth with your signature and driver’s license number on it?”
Delroy uncrossed his legs. His eyes turned down. His expression did not change, but his jaw muscles began flexing rapidly, like he was grinding his teeth into chalk. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his broad forehead. He was lying and everyone in the courtroom knew it. He knew that they knew it, and that he was on the verge of a perjury charge. But Delroy Lund hadn’t gone toe-to-toe with Mexican drug lords without having brass balls. His face turned up, he looked Scott straight in the eye, and he said, “You know what, now that you remind me, I was in Dallas that day. I forgot.”
“You forgot?”
“Yeah, I forgot.”
“Okay, Mr. Lund, we’ll go with that. You arrived in Dallas on Saturday, June fifth, at eleven A.M. and you left Sunday afternoon on US Airways flight number 1812 at four-fifty-five P.M.?”
“Sounds about right.”
“So why did you come to Dallas for just thirty hours?”
Delroy grinned. “To get laid. To pick up a two-bit hooker”-he gestured at Shawanda-“like Blondie there and get laid.”
“Mr. Lund, do you usually carry a handkerchief?”
“Yeah. Allergies.”
“May I see it?”
He reached back, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and held it out to Scott.
“Keep it.”
Scott walked over to the defendant’s table to get a pad and pen. He looked at Shawanda and froze…her hair was brown. Not blonde like the…Scott glanced over at the prosecution table…wig. The wig she had been wearing that night was blonde. Delroy just called Shawanda “Blondie.” Delroy had been there that night.
Delroy Lund murdered Clark McCall.
Scott’s adrenaline pump kicked in like an overdrive. His mind started working fast. The murderer was sitting in the witness chair ten feet away, but Scott had nothing to tie this man to that crime. Delroy Lund was an experienced lawman; he had left no incriminating evidence at the crime scene. Scott’s only hope was to get Delroy to confess on the stand, to break down and blurt out the truth, to tell the world that he had murdered Clark McCall. A Perry Mason moment. A moment lawyers dream of. A moment that happens only on TV and in the movies.
Scott walked over to the witness stand and placed the pad and pen in front of Delroy.
“Mr. Lund, would you please sign your name?”
Delroy shrugged, picked up the pen with his right hand, and signed his name.
“You’re right-handed, Mr. Lund.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“So the FBI’s forensic expert testified that the person who shot Clark McCall was right-handed. You’re right-handed, the murderer was right-handed. The murder occurred in Dallas on June fifth, you were in Dallas on June fifth.”
“Ninety percent of the people in this room are right-handed. And more than that were in Dallas on June fifth.”
“Yes, but none of them had a reason to kill Clark McCall, did they?”
“You’ll have to ask them.”
“I’ll ask you: Did you kill Clark McCall?”
The judge was studying the witness when Ray Burns stood to object. “Your Honor-”
“Sit, Mr. Burns,” the judge said without removing his gaze from Delroy. Ray sat. “Answer the question, Mr. Lund.”
Delroy said, “No, I didn’t kill Clark. Why would I want him dead? I work for his dad.”
“Who wants to be president.”
“So?”
“So if it became known that his son used cocaine and engaged prostitutes and maybe even raped a few girls, Senator McCall’s chances of getting into the White House would be about as good as the defendant’s, isn’t that true?”
Delroy snorted. “Give me a fuckin’ break.”
The judge: “Mr. Lund, watch your language.”
Delroy said, “Hell, if having a screwup for a kid was a motive for murder, half the politicians in D.C. would’ve already killed their kids. I don’t know nothing about rapes, but you think Clark was the only politician’s kid out drinking and doing drugs and other stuff their daddies want to keep quiet? The town’s full of ’em, rich kids who had life handed to them on a silver platter then shit on it.”
“Mr. Lund, why did you decide to get laid in Dallas on June fifth?”
Delroy shrugged. “Most beautiful women in the world are in Dallas.”
“That may be true, but you work for Senator McCall in Washington. Certainly you could have found an acceptable prostitute in the nation’s capital so you could remain in town, especially since two days later, on June seventh, the senator was scheduled to announce his campaign for the presidency. But instead of staying in D.C., you came to Dallas on June fifth to get laid, on the same day Clark came to Dallas? Mr. Lund, did you come specifically to kill Clark?”
Delroy sighed. “I said, I didn’t kill Clark.”
“Then why did you come to Dallas? Why did you leave Washington two days before Senator McCall’s big day? Why did you fly down to Dallas to pick up a prostitute instead of staying in Washington and protecting the senator-”
It hit Scott.
“That’s it, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“It’s just that simple, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t come here to kill Clark. You came to Dallas to protect Senator McCall.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Lund, what usually happened when Clark was in Dallas?”
“I give, what?”
“He got in trouble. He always came home to get into trouble. Fact is, Clark was smart enough to get in trouble only in Dallas, because here his daddy could buy his way out of anything. The McCall name means something in Dallas. The McCall money can buy anything in Dallas-even seven rape victims.”
“Like I said, I don’t know anything about that.”
“And the last thing Senator McCall needed right before he announced for the presidency was Clark getting arrested, and not just for drinking or drugs-like you said, that’s common. But getting charged with rape, that’s not so common, is it? Particularly for the son of the next president. The press would go into a feeding frenzy, maybe even dredge up the other girls. The senator had spent millions to keep Clark’s past hidden so it wouldn’t ruin his political future. And now the presidency was his, he had a commanding lead in the polls, his dream was about to come true…and what was the only thing that could lose the White House for him before he had even won it? A rapist for a son. That would do it. That would destroy Senator McCall’s dream, wouldn’t it?”
Scott pointed back at the senator in the spectator section.
“When Senator McCall learned that Clark was coming to Dallas right before his big announcement, he sent you here to follow Clark, to keep him out of trouble.”
Scott held up another document from Carl’s envelope.
“Clark had booked a return flight to Washington on June sixth at three-twenty-one P.M. so he would be back for his father’s campaign kickoff. The senator knew that if Clark was flying to Dallas just for a Saturday night, that meant only one thing: his demons were calling again and he was answering. He was coming home to get drunk and stoned and pick up a girl. And the senator knew what usually happened when Clark’s dark side took over-exactly what he couldn’t let happen. He couldn’t wake up Sunday morning and read that his son had been arrested for beating and raping another girl in Dallas. So he sent you to Dallas to make sure that didn’t happen. Your job was to wet-nurse Clark, to be his guardian angel, to keep him out of trouble and out of the press. You came to Dallas to protect Senator McCall from his own son.”
Delroy’s eyes again looked past Scott to McCall. Scott turned to McCall as well, and what he saw surprised him. In the senator’s eyes and on the senator’s face Scott saw that he had it exactly wrong. He turned back to Delroy.
“The senator didn’t send you, did he? You freelanced this one. You ran this operation without his approval. Why? Why didn’t you tell the senator? Did you think it best to keep him out of the loop? Did you just not want to bother him right before his big day?” Scott shook his head. “Either way, you came here to make sure Clark didn’t screw things up for his father. That’s why you came to Dallas on Saturday, June the fifth, isn’t it, Mr. Lund?”
“No.”
“You flew to Dallas, you rented a car, you followed Clark that night, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“You followed him down to Harry Hines where the prostitutes hang out, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“And there you watched Clark pull his Mercedes over to two black girls, one wearing a red wig, the other a blonde wig, isn’t that right?”
“No.”
“The girl in the blonde wig got into Clark’s car, didn’t she?”
“I don’t know.”
“That girl was the defendant, wasn’t she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why did you just refer to the defendant as ‘Blondie’?”
“I…”
“Her hair isn’t blonde, Mr. Lund, it’s brown. She hasn’t worn her blonde wig since that night. She’s been in 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.”
Scott removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Pajamae, my life is better now because of your mother. And because of you.”