by Mark Gimenez
“You shot Clark McCall, didn’t you?”
“No, sir. I didn’t shoot no one.”
“And you stole a thousand dollars from him?”
“No, sir. I earned it.”
“And you stole his car?”
“No, sir. I borrowed it, to get back where I belonged.”
“To flee the scene of the crime?”
“To get away before he hit me again.”
“And you went home to your daughter like nothing happened?”
“’Cause nothing happened.”
“Ms. Jones, do you really expect this jury to believe you?”
Shawanda looked at the jurors and said in a soft voice: “No, sir, I don’t expect no one gonna believe me.”
On his way upstairs to tuck the girls in for the night, Scott stopped at the small TV on the kitchen counter where the late news was replaying the day’s events at the trial. An artist’s sketch of Shawanda was on the screen. The reporter said that the defendant was quite beautiful and had comported herself well on the stand. The jurors, he said, were attentive and respectful and, by the end of the day, thoroughly confused by the idea of a killer who was probably right-handed and a defendant who was certainly left-handed. “If Shawanda Jones didn’t kill Clark McCall,” the reporter asked, “who did?”
Upstairs, Scott was leaning over the bed, tucking the girls in, when Pajamae said softly, “Mr. Fenney, I know what my mama does now, with her tricks.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “Mama lets them touch her private parts, put their private parts in hers. That’s what sex is, isn’t it, Mr. Fenney?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Why, Mr. Fenney? Mama always tells me never ever to let a boy touch my private parts. Why does she let men touch hers?”
“It’s like you said, Pajamae: she loves you, but she doesn’t love herself.”
“Mama, she’s had a sad life, hasn’t she, Mr. Fenney?”
“Yes, she has.”
“Now I know why she’s so sad always. She’s never had anyone who loved her all over, not just her private parts.”
“No, she hasn’t.”
“But she looked pretty today, didn’t she?”
“Very pretty.”
“Pretty enough to marry?”
Boo sat up. “A. Scott, we want to live together, with you and her mother. Wouldn’t that be a wonderfully happy ending?”
Scott sat on the edge of the bed. So many times he had fudged the truth with Boo, but after three days of a murder trial, she and Pajamae could handle the truth.
“Girls, happy endings happen in fairy tales, not in real life.”
TWENTY-NINE
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 insul
ting 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.”
