Accused sf-2

by Mark Gimenez

  Braces.

  "You got life insurance?"

  No.

  "What if you die? Who's gonna raise those girls?"

  He had named Bobby Herrin and Karen Douglas, his married law partners, as the girls' guardians in his will.

  "Will they be able to afford two more kids?"

  Hardly. They were soon to have their first child.

  "You gonna send those two smart girls to UT? Don't you want to give them a good education? Harvard, Yale, Wellesley-think how proud you'd be dropping your daughters off at Wellesley for college. With that kind of education, their futures would be unlimited. But that'll cost a hundred thousand a year by the time they're eighteen. Times two. That's a lot of money, Scotty-you gonna ask Rebecca to pay for their college?"

  " Rebecca? "

  "You see that son of a bitch won another tournament? Trey?"

  Trey Rawlins had been the assistant pro at the club, the man Scott's wife had run off with. Dan was shaking his head.

  "Two years ago, he's trying to cure my slice, now he's a star on tour and filthy rich. You could be too, Scotty-filthy rich. What'd you always tell our law student recruits? 'You want odds, go to Vegas. You want a chance to get filthy rich by the time you're forty, hire on with Ford Stevens.' You're only thirty-eight. There's still time to save your career. Except you won't be hiring on with Ford Stevens."

  "What do you mean?"

  Dan Ford paused and took a deep breath, as if he were about to make a big announcement.

  "Ford Fenney."

  "Ford Fenney?"

  "Your name will be on the door, next to mine, where it belongs. Where it's always belonged. Scotty, you were always like a son to me."

  "Until you fired me. What was that, tough love?"

  Scott had said no to his father-figure only once-and had gotten fired for it.

  "That was a mistake. I'm man enough to admit it, I hope you're man enough to forgive me." Dan shrugged. "Besides, Mack's dead now, so there's no conflict."

  U.S. Senator Mack McCall had died a year before of prostate cancer. He had been a Ford Stevens client. The conflict of interest had arisen when Scott had been appointed by Judge Buford to represent Pajamae's mother-a black prostitute named Shawanda Jones-who had been charged with murdering Clark McCall, the senator's son, after he had picked her up one Saturday night. Dan Ford had told Scott to throw the case to preserve McCall's presidential bid; Scott had said no. So Dan had fired him. And A. Scott Fenney's ambitious years had come to an abrupt end.

  "Scotty, the firm's business is booming-I've added fifty lawyers since you left. Come share in it."

  "Booming? In this economy?"

  "Bankruptcies. Business bankruptcies are at an all-time high, and lawyers get paid first, before the creditors." Dan chuckled. "You can't get rich without a lawyer and you can't go broke without a lawyer. Is this a great country or what?"

  Dan's smile faded, and he put a father's hand on his son's shoulder.

  "Come back to the firm. Do well for yourself… and your girls."

  "Dan-"

  "Just think about it, Scotty, okay? Think about what's best for your girls."

  "Always."

  They shook hands again, and Dan walked off, his brown wingtips clacking on the wood floor down the center aisle and out the double doors until the sound faded away. Scott sat alone in the vast courtroom, alone in his defeat. Alone with his thoughts.

  One million dollars. A year. Every year. College. Weddings. Mortgage. Vacations. Cable TV. iPhones. Braces. Everything the girls needed or wanted. Except a mother. All he had to do was go back over to the dark side. Work for corporations who could pay $750 an hour to lawyers who sold their talents to the highest bidder.

  And why shouldn't he?

  If he had played pro football, he wouldn't have played for a poor, losing team just to make the games fair. He would have sold his talents to the highest bidder. No one faulted A-Rod for making $25 million a year playing baseball for the Yankees, the richest winning team in baseball. Why should A. Scott play for poor, losing teams? Why shouldn't he reap the rewards of his talents? Why shouldn't he provide for the girls? Why shouldn't he take them to the south of France for summer vacation-or at least to the north of America? Why shouldn't they go to Wellesley with the best girls in America? Why shouldn't Pajamae have teeth that look like pearls?

  Why shouldn't he be filthy rich like the man his wife had run off with?

  FOUR

  United States District Judge Samuel Buford was seventy-eight years old now. The black reading glasses seemed too big for his gaunt face. His white hair was no longer thick; it was only wisps. From the chemo. Everyone had always said Sam Buford would die on the bench. They were right.

  "You should've won," the judge said when Scott entered his chambers.

  Scott shrugged. "Just another case lost."

  "Another lost cause."

  "Someone's got to lose those cases, Judge, or they wouldn't be lost causes."

  The judge gestured at a chair. Scott sat and gazed across the wide desk at the frail judge dwarfed by his leather chair and framed by tall bookcases filled with law books. Each time Scott saw the judge there seemed to be less to see; it was as if he were disappearing before Scott's eyes. And the judge now had the look of death about him, the same look Scott's mother had when the cancer had won out and she knew it. Judge Samuel Buford was a living legend in the law. But not for long.

  "Scott, you can't make a difference if you can't pay your bills. It's okay to take on a few paying clients every now and then."

  "Making rich people richer… I can't seem to generate any enthusiasm for that line of work anymore."

  The judge gave him a knowing nod. "Once you cross over, it's hard to go back."

  They regarded each other, two of a kind now.

  "How are you holding up, Judge?"

  "Doctors say six months."

  Sam Buford had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. But he was determined to clear his docket before he died.

  "Why don't you retire, spend your time at home?"

  "Doing what? Wife's been dead ten years now, the kids and grandkids live out of state, I don't play golf…" He paused and half-smiled, as if recalling a favorite moment. "Scott, I ever tell you I almost retired two years ago, during that case?"

  "The McCall murder case?"

  The judge nodded.

  "No, sir, you didn't."

  "Well, I would've, if you hadn't come back that day, said you were ready to be that girl's lawyer. You gave me hope."

  "Hope for what?"

  "The law… lawyers… life. Glad you came back. Glad I didn't retire." He tossed a thumb at the law books behind him. "The law's been my life. Thirty-two years of judging, I made a difference."

  Sam Buford had wielded a gavel since Scott was in first grade. All the toughest cases in Dallas had come before him, but he would forever be remembered-and reviled by many-for ordering the desegregation of public schools so black children would receive the same education as white children.

  "Yes, sir, you did. You're a fine federal judge."

  "You could be too."

  "I could be what?"

  "A fine federal judge."

  " Me? A federal judge?"

  "Scott, my bench will be vacant soon. I could put your name forward."

  "Judge, McCall's gone but both U.S. senators from Texas are still Republicans. They're not going to put a lawyer who sues the same corporations that contribute to their campaigns on the federal bench. And the president won't nominate me unless they approve."

  Under Article Two of the U.S. Constitution, the Senate must confirm every federal judge nominated by the president. For nominations to the Supreme Court, Senate confirmations become bloody battles between special interest groups pursuing single issues-abortion, gay marriage, affirmative action, the right to bear AK-47s-because they know that those nine justices-nine lawyers-will decide the most contentious issues of the day: a Supreme Court decision is
the law of the land.

  Appeals court nominations are only slightly less bloody, because those lawyers are justices-in-waiting. But district court judges-trial judges-must follow decisions of the appeals courts and the Supreme Court, so the special interest groups keep their powder dry on those nominations. Consequently, federal district judges are effectively nominated by the two senators from the state in which they will serve and confirmed by rubber stamp. It's called "Senatorial courtesy": You don't object to my home-state judges, I won't object to yours.

  The judge gave him a sly smile. "Haven't you heard, Scott? I'm a living legend in the law." He pointed a bony finger at his phone. "I can call the president and he'll answer. He'd grant a dying legend his last wish. And our Republican senators need his signature on their pork-barrel legislation to get reelected-which is a hell of a lot more important to them than who sits on the federal bench here in Dallas."

  "But I'm not sure I'm up to it, being a federal judge."

  "You're up to it-because you possess the singular qualification for a federal judge."

  "And what is that?"

  "You care."

  "But-"

  "You'll be my age one day, Scott, facing death and looking back on your life, as I am now, judging the life you've lived, wondering if it was worthwhile, if the world will even know you were here. That's important to a man."

  The last two years, Scott had learned that a man sitting in judgment of his own life is a harsh judge indeed.

  "If you don't take my bench, Scott, a politician will-a lawyer looking to move up in the world, a lawyer who won't make the tough decisions a judge must make for fear of the political impact on his career. An ambitious judge is a dangerous animal."

  "Judge, I-"

  "Lifetime appointment, Scott, a lifetime of getting paid to help the… what did you call your clients?"

  "The dissed."

  "Yes, the dissed. You could give the dissed a fair shake in that courtroom… you could make their lives a little fairer… a little less unjust… and you could make a good living-lifetime salary, pension, life and health insurance-"

  "Dental?"

  "Of course. You could be proud of your life, Scott, and still take care of your girls."

  The judge sat back and exhaled as if he were exhausted. Or dying. Scott felt as if he were losing a family member. If Dan Ford had been his father-figure, Samuel Buford had been his wise old grandfather-figure-not that the judge would claim any kinship to Dan Ford.

  "I saw him in the courtroom. Dan Ford. He trying to lure you back to Ford Stevens?"

  Scott nodded. "Ford Fenney. My name on the door and a million dollars."

  "That's a lot of money." The judge coughed. "Doing good or doing well-that's a daily decision for a lawyer, like other folks deciding between oatmeal or eggs for breakfast. You'll do well at Ford Fenney. You'll do good as Judge Fenney."

  "Is it a good life, Judge?"

  "It is."

  United States District Judge Atticus Scott Fenney. His mother would be proud.

  "Scott, I'd die a happy man knowing you'd be sitting at my bench. May I put your name forward?"

  "Yes, sir. And thank you."

  Scott stood and shook Sam Buford's hand. He would never see the judge alive again.

  For the first time in two years, A. Scott Fenney had options in life.

  Option A, he could return to the downtown practice of law and a million-dollar salary-back to a professional life dedicated to making rich people richer and getting filthy rich himself in the process-and back to a personal life of Ferraris and Highland Park mansions and exclusive all-white country clubs. Maybe another trophy wife. The wife and life most lawyers dream of. Option A required only that he call Dan Ford and say yes to Ford Fenney.

  Option B, he could embark on a new life as a federal judge and a $169,000 salary-a professional life of seeing justice done-and a personal life of financial security, life and health insurance-including dental-paid vacations, and a fully-funded pension. He could be proud of his life and provide for his daughters. It would be a good life. A perfect life for United States District Judge A. Scott Fenney. Option B, however, required the support of the two Republican U.S. senators from Texas and Senate confirmation. Even with Judge Buford backing him, it was far from a sure thing.

  Option C, he could continue his current life of losing lost causes and not making enough money to pay the mortgage, cover the office overhead, take the girls on vacation, save for college, or buy braces for Pajamae.

  He crossed out Option C.

  Scott had often driven around Dallas in the Ferrari whenever he needed to think things out. Funny, but he didn't seem to think as well in a Jetta. He parked and walked into the law offices of Fenney Herrin Douglas, an old two-story Victorian house located just south of Highland Park, and found the firm's entire staff gathered around the front desk. They looked like the cast from Lost: Bobby Herrin, thirty-eight, the short, chubby character with thinning hair and a pockmarked face, always handy with a witty remark… Karen Douglas, Bobby's whip-smart and very pretty love-interest character (and now spouse), ten years his junior and seven months' pregnant with their first child… Carlos Hernandez, twenty-eight, the Latino character oozing machismo from every pore of his tattooed brown skin, six feet tall and two hundred pounds of muscle, dressed in black leather pants and a black T-shirt tight around his torso, studying to be a paralegal and the firm's Spanish translator… and Louis Wright, thirty years old, the gentle giant black character with the gold-toothed smile, the firm's driver and the Fenney family's self-appointed bodyguard. Their expressions were somber, as if they had just been told they would never get off this island.

  "Hey, guys, it's not the first case we lost."

  "We lost?"

  Scott sighed. "Yeah, Bobby, we lost."

  "Guess we don't get paid this month," Carlos said.

  Louis shot Carlos a sharp look.

  "Don't worry, Carlos, I'll figure something out."

  No one said anything.

  " What? "

  The others glanced at Bobby as if he had drawn the black bean then abruptly turned and headed to their respective offices. Before disappearing around the corner, Louis said, "Mr. Fenney, appreciate the new book."

  Pajamae would not call him Dad, and Louis would not call him Scott.

  "That Fitzgerald dude," Louis said. "He's pretty good." Louis stood tall and recited like a Shakespearean actor: " 'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.' "

  F. Scott had been right: life seemed to beat A. Scott back into his past.

  "Very good, Louis."

  Louis seemed proud as he walked out of the room.

  "What's this month's book club selection?" Bobby said.

  Louis's formal education had ended with ninth grade, but he yearned for knowledge. So Scott had introduced him to books. Louis had developed a real passion for reading. Each month, Scott gave him a new book. Last month it was The Great Gatsby. This month it was-

  " No Country for Old Men. "

  "Good book. Movie, too."

  Scott climbed the stairs to his office. Bobby followed, smacking the gum he had taken to chewing to quit smoking now that he was going to be a father.

  "Billy," he said.

  Baby names. They were going to have a boy.

  "Billy Herrin," Scott said. "Sounds like a shortstop."

  "Joe?"

  "Maybe."

  "Sid?"

  "No!"

  Scott and Bobby had grown up together, two renters in Highland Park. Scott's football heroics had opened the door to success in Dallas for him, at least for a while. Bobby hadn't been a football star, so the door had been shut in his face. After SMU law school, Scott had gone on to a partnership at Ford Stevens, Bobby to a storefront in East Dallas. After eleven years on career paths heading in opposite directions, they had reconnected two years ago for the McCall murder case. They had practiced law together since. They now entered Scott's off
ice.

  "Uh, Scotty, on the news this morning-"

  "Bobby, you're not going to believe what Buford wants to do."

  "What?"

  "Put me up for federal judge, to replace him."

  " No shit? Wow, that's, uh, that's great, Scotty."

  Bobby had stopped smacking his gum. Scott saw the concern on his friend's face. Bobby was about to become a father and the "Fenney" in "Fenney Herrin Douglas" might leave the firm. They were barely making it now; without their lead lawyer, they wouldn't make it at all.

  "Bobby, a federal judge gets to hire his own staff attorneys, like you and Karen. And a paralegal like Carlos and a… well, I'll have to figure out a position for Louis."

  "So we'd be federal employees?"

  "With benefits."

  "Maternity?"

  "I'm sure-it's the federal government."

  "I've never had a job with benefits. Course, I've never had a real job."

  "Well, you will now."

  "If you get confirmed."

  "A minor obstacle."

  "With two Republican senators? I won't count my benefits just yet. What about our clients?"

  "Civil rights claims are federal cases tried before federal judges."

  Scott settled in behind his desk, leaned back in his chair, and kicked his feet up. Bobby sat across from him. They were quiet, both considering their legal futures. Scott gazed at the gleaming downtown skyline framed in the window like a portrait. Once again, downtown Dallas beckoned to A. Scott Fenney. But would he return to a corner office on the sixty-second floor or to a judge's chambers in the federal courthouse? To $1 million or $169,000? To Ford Fenney or as Judge Fenney? To money or justice? Two years before, he had faced the same choice; he had chosen justice. Which decision had cost him everything he had once held dear, including his wife. Everything except his daughter. But it had given him another daughter and another life, if not another wife. He would make the same choice again. And he would make the same choice now.

  "You'll be a good judge, Scotty."

  "Thanks, Bobby. So what were you saying?"

  "Oh… yeah."

  Bobby's jaws worked the gum hard again. He exhaled heavily.