Free The Color of Law by Mark Gimenez Page A

bed and he hits me again, with his fist this time, right here.” She was pointing to the left side of her face, where a bruise was evident. “But I got my knee right in his balls, he fall off and start cussing me: ‘You nigger bitch!’ I grab my clothes, my thousand dollars, his car keys, drive back to Kiki and leave the car.”
    “And that’s the last time you saw Clark McCall?”
    “That his name?”
    “Yeah. He was the son of Senator Mack McCall.”
    A blank face. She didn’t know Mack McCall from Mickey Mouse.
    “Last I seen him, Mr. Fenney, he was rolling on the floor, holding his privates and cussing me something fierce.”
    “He was murdered that night. Police found him Sunday, naked on the bedroom floor, shot once in the head, point-blank, .22-caliber gun next to him, with your fingerprints on it.”
    “Must of dropped outta my purse.”
    “So it was your gun?”
    “Girl work the streets in Dallas, she gotta carry.”
    “But you didn’t shoot him?”
    “No, sir, Mr. Fenney.”
    “You’re innocent?”
    “Yes, sir, Mr. Fenney. And I ain’t coppin’ no plea.”
    “But, Ms. Jones—”
    “Miz Jones my mama. You call me Shawanda. And I ain’t pleading out. And what about bail? When I get outta here? I’m in bad need of some—”
    “Dope?”
    “Mr. Fenney, you looking at me like I ain’t nothing but worthless dirt, but you ain’t never been where I been.”
    Scott sighed. This wasn’t going as planned.
    “I’ll check on the bail hearing, but don’t count on getting out on a murder charge. And if the court grants bail, it’ll be high. Do you have any assets?”
    She slapped her butt. “This here Shawanda’s only asset.”
    “A nice ass won’t get you out of jail.”
    “It will in some counties.” He thought she was joking, but she didn’t smile. “So I be locked up till the trial? Mr. Fenney, I gotta see my baby!”
    “You have a child?”
    “Name Pajamae, she nine.”
    Scott put the pen to the pad. “How do you spell that?”
    “P-a—j-a—m-a-e.
Pa
—
shu
—
may
. It’s French.”
    “Where is she?”
    “Our place down in the projects. We been through this before, but only couple days. I tell her, ‘Don’t even open that door, girl.’”
    “Does this Kiki take care of her?”
    “No, sir, Mr. Fenney. Kiki, she live with a man. I don’t let no man in my place might hurt my Pajamae. Louis, he watch out for her, take her groceries, make sure she okay. He like her uncle but he ain’t.”
    Scott pushed the pad and pen across the table.
    “Write down your address…and Louis’s phone number.”
    Shawanda stopped her pacing, sat, took the pen in her left hand, and began writing, but her hand was shaking like an old person with tremors. Scott realized the awkwardness of the moment.
    “My daughter’s left-handed, too.”
    She stopped and stared at her hand. After a moment, she stopped writing, put the pen down, and looked back up at Scott with wet eyes.
    “Mr. Fenney, the smack, it just own me.”
    Then she doubled over and vomited.
             
    Dan Ford was on the phone when Scott arrived at his senior partner’s office and dropped his body onto the sofa like a load of cement.
    Dan was saying into the phone: “Of course we support your reelection, Governor. Your fine leadership gave the business community everything we asked for from the legislature—no new taxes, tort reform…Yes…Yes…All right, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    Dan hung up the phone and shook his head in amazement.
    “That boy couldn’t find oil at an Exxon station.” A long sigh. “But he is the governor.” Finally, he focused his attention on Scott. “Did she go for it?”
    “No. She won’t cop a plea.”
    A knowing nod. “Figured she might not.”
    Scott had braced himself for one of Dan Ford’s profanity-laced tirades, but his senior partner didn’t seem all that upset.
    “What should I do?”
    “Hire her out,” Dan said.
    “Hire her out?”
    “Yeah, hire a criminal