frown.
“Morning, Shawanda.”
Her entire body was trembling, shaking, twitching. Scott almost reached out and embraced her, to warm her like he did Boo when she got a chill after getting out of the pool, but at the last second the thought of his client throwing up on his expensive suit dissuaded him. He eased a step away from her.
“Who’s him, Mr. Fenney?” she said in a weak voice, gesturing at Bobby.
“Bobby Herrin, your lawyer.”
“Thought you my lawyer?”
“Shawanda, I represent corporations, not criminals…I mean, people charged with crimes. I hired you a real criminal defense attorney.”
“All rise!”
The bailiff’s voice boomed out and everyone in the courtroom stood as Judge Samuel Buford entered from a door behind the bench. He was the very image of a federal judge: the white hair, the patrician face, the black reading glasses, and the black robe. He sat behind the bench, which was elevated, as if to emphasize the supreme power of the law. To look him in the eye Scott had to angle his head up about twenty degrees.
“Be seated,” the judge said. He shuffled through papers on his desk and glanced up over his glasses, first at Ray Burns, then at Scott and Shawanda and Bobby. Finally he said, “
United States of America versus Shawanda Jones
. Detention hearing.”
He looked at Shawanda again.
“Ms. Jones, are you okay?”
He was a father asking his young daughter if she was hurt after falling off her bicycle. Shawanda nodded and the judge then turned to the lawyers.
“Gentlemen, please make your appearances.”
Burns said, “Ray Burns, Assistant U.S. Attorney, for the government.”
Then Scott said, “A. Scott Fenney, Ford Stevens, for the defendant. If I may, Your Honor, my firm has retained Robert Herrin, Esquire, to assume representation of the defendant. Mr. Herrin is a well-respected criminal defense attorney in Dallas. He possesses much more experience than I in criminal matters and will be able to provide the defendant a more competent defense. With the court’s permission, I ask to withdraw from representation of the defendant and for Mr. Herrin to be substituted in my place.”
The judge was eyeing Scott over his reading glasses; a wry smile crossed his face.
“Didn’t really want to be another Atticus Finch after all, huh, Mr. Fenney?”
Scott knew better than to respond. The judge’s smile dissolved into a look of disappointment that, for some odd reason, bothered Scott. The judge sighed and dropped his eyes. He started writing on what Scott knew was the case docket, officially substituting Robert Herrin, Esq., as counsel for the defendant in place of A. Scott Fenney, Esq. Scott felt like a kid about to get out of detention hall.
The judge said, “Well, since it’s okay with Ms. Jones…”
Shawanda Jones rubbed her face but her skin felt numb. She hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours; the cravings kept her awake all day and all night. She had never been without heroin for this long since she had gotten hooked, and it was killing her. Her mind was fuzzy and she couldn’t get her thoughts straight. She had a blinding headache that wouldn’t quit. She ached all over. Every muscle and bone in her body was throbbing with pain, and her skin was covered with goose bumps from the chills that swept over her regularly.
Her eyes were dry and gritty as she raised them to the white man standing to her right, this Robert Herrin Esquire. He was short, had a belly on him, and must have had bad acne as a boy because his face was pockmarked. His brown hair clearly hadn’t been washed that morning. He was wearing the cheapest suit she had ever seen on a white lawyer—the damn thing
shined
under the fluorescent lights! His white shirt had yellowed a shade and its button-down collar was missing one of its buttons. His tie screamed
Sale at JCPenney!
No doubt, she made more money hooking than he did lawyering.
She turned to the white man to her left, Mr.
“Morning, Shawanda.”
Her entire body was trembling, shaking, twitching. Scott almost reached out and embraced her, to warm her like he did Boo when she got a chill after getting out of the pool, but at the last second the thought of his client throwing up on his expensive suit dissuaded him. He eased a step away from her.
“Who’s him, Mr. Fenney?” she said in a weak voice, gesturing at Bobby.
“Bobby Herrin, your lawyer.”
“Thought you my lawyer?”
“Shawanda, I represent corporations, not criminals…I mean, people charged with crimes. I hired you a real criminal defense attorney.”
“All rise!”
The bailiff’s voice boomed out and everyone in the courtroom stood as Judge Samuel Buford entered from a door behind the bench. He was the very image of a federal judge: the white hair, the patrician face, the black reading glasses, and the black robe. He sat behind the bench, which was elevated, as if to emphasize the supreme power of the law. To look him in the eye Scott had to angle his head up about twenty degrees.
“Be seated,” the judge said. He shuffled through papers on his desk and glanced up over his glasses, first at Ray Burns, then at Scott and Shawanda and Bobby. Finally he said, “
United States of America versus Shawanda Jones
. Detention hearing.”
He looked at Shawanda again.
“Ms. Jones, are you okay?”
He was a father asking his young daughter if she was hurt after falling off her bicycle. Shawanda nodded and the judge then turned to the lawyers.
“Gentlemen, please make your appearances.”
Burns said, “Ray Burns, Assistant U.S. Attorney, for the government.”
Then Scott said, “A. Scott Fenney, Ford Stevens, for the defendant. If I may, Your Honor, my firm has retained Robert Herrin, Esquire, to assume representation of the defendant. Mr. Herrin is a well-respected criminal defense attorney in Dallas. He possesses much more experience than I in criminal matters and will be able to provide the defendant a more competent defense. With the court’s permission, I ask to withdraw from representation of the defendant and for Mr. Herrin to be substituted in my place.”
The judge was eyeing Scott over his reading glasses; a wry smile crossed his face.
“Didn’t really want to be another Atticus Finch after all, huh, Mr. Fenney?”
Scott knew better than to respond. The judge’s smile dissolved into a look of disappointment that, for some odd reason, bothered Scott. The judge sighed and dropped his eyes. He started writing on what Scott knew was the case docket, officially substituting Robert Herrin, Esq., as counsel for the defendant in place of A. Scott Fenney, Esq. Scott felt like a kid about to get out of detention hall.
The judge said, “Well, since it’s okay with Ms. Jones…”
Shawanda Jones rubbed her face but her skin felt numb. She hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours; the cravings kept her awake all day and all night. She had never been without heroin for this long since she had gotten hooked, and it was killing her. Her mind was fuzzy and she couldn’t get her thoughts straight. She had a blinding headache that wouldn’t quit. She ached all over. Every muscle and bone in her body was throbbing with pain, and her skin was covered with goose bumps from the chills that swept over her regularly.
Her eyes were dry and gritty as she raised them to the white man standing to her right, this Robert Herrin Esquire. He was short, had a belly on him, and must have had bad acne as a boy because his face was pockmarked. His brown hair clearly hadn’t been washed that morning. He was wearing the cheapest suit she had ever seen on a white lawyer—the damn thing
shined
under the fluorescent lights! His white shirt had yellowed a shade and its button-down collar was missing one of its buttons. His tie screamed
Sale at JCPenney!
No doubt, she made more money hooking than he did lawyering.
She turned to the white man to her left, Mr.
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