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Authors: Mark Gimenez
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House.”
SIX
T HE N OVEMBER 22, 1963, edition of the
Dallas Morning News
included a full-page black-bordered advertisement titled “Welcome Mr. Kennedy to Dallas.” It was not a welcome. It was an indictment of President Kennedy that had been paid for by several right-wing Dallas oilmen, “America-thinking citizens” they called themselves. They accused Kennedy of being soft on Communism, despite the president’s successful standoff with the Russians over the Cuban missile crisis. On Air Force One’s flight to Dallas, an aide showed the ad to the president. Kennedy read it and remarked, “We’re heading into nut country today.” The ad identified the mayor of Dallas as a Kennedy sympathizer.
Earle Cabell was the mayor. He met President Kennedy at Love Field that morning and rode in the presidential motorcade, three cars behind the president’s blue limousine. As his car turned onto Elm Street, Cabell heard three gunshots ring out from the Texas School Book Depository. He arrived at Parkland Memorial Hospital just as the president was being removed from his limousine. Cabell remained at the hospital until the president’s body was taken away. He had hoped to show the president that Dallas was no longer the “Southwest hate capital of Dixie.” He had failed. But they still named the federal building in downtown Dallas after him—Cabell, not the president.
Of course, when A. Scott Fenney, Esq., arrived at the Earle Cabell Federal Building on Commerce Street shortly after nine the next morning, he didn’t know who Earle Cabell was or why they had named this dull-as-dirt twenty-one-story structure after him. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be in Earle’s building that day and all he cared about was getting his client to cop a plea and then getting himself the hell out of there. He exited the elevator on the fifth floor, the federal detention center. After passing through the metal detector and having his briefcase searched, he was met by a black guard.
“Scott Fenney to see Shawanda Jones.”
“You her lawyer?”
Scott wanted desperately to scream,
Hell, no, I’m not her lawyer!
Instead, he nodded. The guard led him down a narrow hallway to a small room, bare except for a metal table and two metal chairs. Scott entered and stared at the bare walls until the door opened and a black woman entered, bringing with her a foul body odor that filled the room like thick smoke. She looked him up and down, covered her mouth with both hands, and sneezed violently several times. Then she said, “You the lawyer?”
“Yes, I am.”
Shawanda Jones was twenty-four but she appeared much older. She was a small woman, rising only to Scott’s shoulders. Her hair was neither kinky nor slicked straight; it was brown, hung just over her ears, and appeared soft, although obviously it had gone untouched by a brush for days. Her eyes were creamy ovals with big brown centers, but they seemed hollowed out and vacant. The area below her eyes was a darker brown than the rest of her face, which was tan and smooth and glistening with a light coating of sweat. Her nose was narrow and her lips thin. Her body seemed slim but shapely under the baggy white jail uniform. Her face was angular with prominent cheekbones. She was attractive, but at one time in her life, she must have been beautiful. She reminded Scott of Halle Berry on a bad day. A very bad day.
Scott was not wearing his glasses that morning; he didn’t care whether this client thought he looked smart or not. And he did not extend a hand to her even though he always shook hands with a new client: Dan Ford had explained to Scott early in his legal career that a lawyer had only one opportunity to make a good first impression on a new client, so he should always look the client directly in the eye and give him a firm handshake, which, Dan said, would project a sense of forthrightness and honesty, thus making the client less likely to question his legal bills. Instead,
SIX
T HE N OVEMBER 22, 1963, edition of the
Dallas Morning News
included a full-page black-bordered advertisement titled “Welcome Mr. Kennedy to Dallas.” It was not a welcome. It was an indictment of President Kennedy that had been paid for by several right-wing Dallas oilmen, “America-thinking citizens” they called themselves. They accused Kennedy of being soft on Communism, despite the president’s successful standoff with the Russians over the Cuban missile crisis. On Air Force One’s flight to Dallas, an aide showed the ad to the president. Kennedy read it and remarked, “We’re heading into nut country today.” The ad identified the mayor of Dallas as a Kennedy sympathizer.
Earle Cabell was the mayor. He met President Kennedy at Love Field that morning and rode in the presidential motorcade, three cars behind the president’s blue limousine. As his car turned onto Elm Street, Cabell heard three gunshots ring out from the Texas School Book Depository. He arrived at Parkland Memorial Hospital just as the president was being removed from his limousine. Cabell remained at the hospital until the president’s body was taken away. He had hoped to show the president that Dallas was no longer the “Southwest hate capital of Dixie.” He had failed. But they still named the federal building in downtown Dallas after him—Cabell, not the president.
Of course, when A. Scott Fenney, Esq., arrived at the Earle Cabell Federal Building on Commerce Street shortly after nine the next morning, he didn’t know who Earle Cabell was or why they had named this dull-as-dirt twenty-one-story structure after him. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be in Earle’s building that day and all he cared about was getting his client to cop a plea and then getting himself the hell out of there. He exited the elevator on the fifth floor, the federal detention center. After passing through the metal detector and having his briefcase searched, he was met by a black guard.
“Scott Fenney to see Shawanda Jones.”
“You her lawyer?”
Scott wanted desperately to scream,
Hell, no, I’m not her lawyer!
Instead, he nodded. The guard led him down a narrow hallway to a small room, bare except for a metal table and two metal chairs. Scott entered and stared at the bare walls until the door opened and a black woman entered, bringing with her a foul body odor that filled the room like thick smoke. She looked him up and down, covered her mouth with both hands, and sneezed violently several times. Then she said, “You the lawyer?”
“Yes, I am.”
Shawanda Jones was twenty-four but she appeared much older. She was a small woman, rising only to Scott’s shoulders. Her hair was neither kinky nor slicked straight; it was brown, hung just over her ears, and appeared soft, although obviously it had gone untouched by a brush for days. Her eyes were creamy ovals with big brown centers, but they seemed hollowed out and vacant. The area below her eyes was a darker brown than the rest of her face, which was tan and smooth and glistening with a light coating of sweat. Her nose was narrow and her lips thin. Her body seemed slim but shapely under the baggy white jail uniform. Her face was angular with prominent cheekbones. She was attractive, but at one time in her life, she must have been beautiful. She reminded Scott of Halle Berry on a bad day. A very bad day.
Scott was not wearing his glasses that morning; he didn’t care whether this client thought he looked smart or not. And he did not extend a hand to her even though he always shook hands with a new client: Dan Ford had explained to Scott early in his legal career that a lawyer had only one opportunity to make a good first impression on a new client, so he should always look the client directly in the eye and give him a firm handshake, which, Dan said, would project a sense of forthrightness and honesty, thus making the client less likely to question his legal bills. Instead,
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