Accused

by Mark Gimenez

  "One million people live in Dallas. One hundred million dollars comes to one hundred dollars per person. That's all. One hundred dollars per person gets rid of every liquor store in South Dallas. One hundred dollars gets rid of the drunks and dealers and addicts and hookers and crack houses and crime. One hundred dollars frees the citizens of South Dallas from their prisons, allows them to remove the burglar bars from their homes and to rebuild their community. One hundred dollars rights this wrong. One hundred dollars, ladies and gentlemen. And you have the power to make it happen."

  Scott spread his arms out to the courtroom like a televangelist at his podium.

  "This is where regular people like you have power. This is where people like you can change things. This is where real change in America happens, in courtrooms just like this all across the country, by juries just like you. Juries that stood up to the tobacco companies and the drug companies and Wall Street and even their own government. Juries that had the guts to do the right thing. Juries that changed America and made our lives better. Juries just like you.

  "This is your chance to change Dallas."

  They didn't take the chance. An hour later—barely enough time for the jurors to go to the restroom, eat lunch, and take a single vote—the jury returned a nine-to-three verdict in favor of the City of Dallas. Nine whites versus three minorities. North Dallas versus South Dallas. Rich versus poor.

  The story of Dallas.

  Judge Buford dismissed the jury and motioned Scott back to his chambers then disappeared through a door behind the bench. Scott consoled the lead plaintiff, Mabel Johnson, a black woman who lived in South Dallas just east of the intersection of Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Malcolm X Boulevard. She was a single mother. Her three young daughters walked to school past a half dozen liquor stores every morning and home every afternoon. She fought back tears.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Fenney."

  "No, I'm sorry, Mabel. I'm sorry I couldn't make life better for you and your kids. For all the kids down there."

  "Down there," as if she lived in Mexico instead of just a mile south of where they now stood. She reached up and touched his cheek.

  "You're still my hero, Mr. Fenney."

  "I lost."

  "You tried."

  Mabel embraced him then walked out of the courtroom. Scott sat on the plaintiff's table and stared at his shoes. He no longer represented the trophy clients of Dallas, rich people who bestowed social status on their lawyers; the mere mention of his clients' identities at bar association meetings typically evoked perplexed head shaking or muffled laughter from other lawyers. He no longer worked the margins of ethics and the law, that gray area where a lawyer's money is made; nor did he make much money. He no longer practiced law like he had played football. For one thing, he no longer viewed the law as sport; for another, he lost. A. Scott Fenney was not a man accustomed to defeat, either on the football field or in a courtroom. Two years before, in this very courtroom, he had experienced his greatest victory as a lawyer when the jury had returned a "not guilty" verdict for Pajamae's mother. But the last two years had brought defeat into his life.

  He had tried to make a difference. He had failed.

  Another pair of shoes now entered his field of vision—brown wingtips—and Scott knew whose feet were in them before he heard the familiar voice.

  "Hell of a closing argument, Scotty. Almost made me want to pay my hundred bucks. Almost."

  He raised his eyes to Dan Ford standing there. Dan was sixty-two, bald, and the senior partner at Ford Stevens, the two-hundred-fifty-lawyer Dallas firm that had previously employed A. Scott Fenney. Dan Ford was the man who had taught Scott everything he knew about practicing law, the man who had been Scott's father-figure for eleven years, the man who had single-handedly destroyed Scott's perfect life. He had come for closing arguments. A ten-lawyer team from Ford Stevens had represented the city. They had won. They would make millions. Which explained why Dan was smiling when he stuck his hand out to Scott. They shook, and Dan's expression turned to one of profound empathy.

  "Scotty … you're trying to make the world a better place when you should be making money. You're wasting your talents, son. Come back to the firm. You can have your old office back."

  "I have an office."

  "Yeah, but your old office comes with a Ferrari, a Highland Park mansion, a country club membership, and a million-dollar paycheck."

  A million dollars. Funny, but Scott's first thought wasn't the Ferrari or the mansion and certainly not the country club where his wife had met the assistant golf pro. It was braces for Pajamae.

  "Sid's driving my Ferrari and sitting in my office."

  "He won't be if you come back. Scotty, watching you today, it was like watching Secretariat in his prime pulling a tourist buggy. Made me sad, thinking of all the money you could be making. The hooker's case made you famous, you could be working the biggest cases in Texas. Instead, you're working for the little people, doing good instead of doing well. You take this case on a contingency?"

  Lawyers his age at big firms like Ford Stevens billed $750 an hour—$12.50 every minute, almost twice the U.S. minimum hourly wage—and they billed in minimum six-minute increments: thirty seconds reading a letter or a one-minute phone call would cost the client a minimum charge of $75. But not Scott's clients. He no longer billed by the hour. He now worked on a contingency fee: one-third of whatever he won, if he won. Big-firm lawyers billed by the hour and won even when their clients lost. Scott Fenney won or lost with his clients. Today, they had both lost.

  "A third of nothing is nothing, Scotty. We're going home with millions, you're going home with a hug from your client. That make you happy?"

  "Why do you want me back? I lost."

  Dan dismissed that concern with a wave of his hand.

  "Jesus Christ couldn't have won this case, not in Dallas. But you should've won. Come back to the firm and be a winner again."

  "For corporations."

  "Who pay."

  "I'm doing okay."

  "That's not what I hear. You're behind on your office rent, can't pay your staff … You deserve better than that."

  He once had better than that. At Ford Stevens, Scott had made $750,000 a year, with benefits. Now he made $100,000—in a good year. And this was not such a year. He had gone through every penny in his savings. He was broke.

  "Look, Scotty, you can't take on these lost causes the rest of your life. How are you gonna take care of your girls, pay for their college, weddings …?"

  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 a
bout 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 jud
gment 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.