by Mark Gimenez
"There was a murder down in Galveston and she's been arrested and charged-"
"She who?"
Bobby opened his mouth to answer, but Scott's phone rang. He held up a finger to Bobby then put the receiver to his ear and said, "Scott Fenney." He heard a heavy sigh, almost a cry, then a voice he hadn't heard in twenty-two months and eight days.
"Scott-it's Rebecca. I need you."
FIVE
They would spend their summer vacation on Galveston Island.
It was the following Monday morning, and Scott wasn't thinking about Ford Fenney or Judge Fenney. He was thinking about Rebecca Fenney. His ex-wife was sitting in the Galveston County Jail, charged with the murder of Trey Rawlins. The man his wife had left him for was now dead.
Scott was driving the Jetta south on Interstate 45 through East Texas. Consuela was sitting in the passenger's seat and quietly saying the rosary-she was deathly afraid of Texas highways-and Boo and Pajamae were watching a Hannah Montana DVD on their portable player in the back seat while little Maria sucked on a pink pacifier and slept peacefully in her car seat between them. In the rearview Scott saw Bobby and Karen in their blue Prius, and behind them, Carlos and Louis in the black Dodge Charger.
"Good God Almighty, Mr. Fenney, what the heck is that?"
Pajamae was pointing out the left side of the car at a six-story-tall white statue overlooking the interstate like a giant observing his toy cars speeding past.
"Sam Houston. The first president of the Republic of Texas."
"Mr. Fenney, did you know that Sam Houston and a bunch of white boys just stole Texas from the Mexicans?"
Fifth grade had studied Sam Houston and sex.
"I heard something about that."
"Our teacher said now the Mexicans are taking the place back, all of them moving here."
"What's that?" Boo asked.
"Mexicans?"
"No-that."
They were now in Huntsville, located seventy miles due north of Houston and notable for two structures: the Sam Houston statue and the state penitentiary. In the rearview, Scott saw Boo looking out the side window. He glanced that way and saw what she saw: bleak brick buildings behind tall chain-link fences topped with concertina wire and secured by armed guards in towers at each corner of the perimeter. The State of Texas incarcerated 155,000 inmates in those buildings behind those fences.
"A prison," he said.
In the rearview, he saw Boo twist in her seat to stare at the prison until it was out of sight. She turned back. Her face was pale. Scott knew her thoughts had returned to her mother. The murder had made the network news Friday and Saturday evenings, and no doubt the cable coverage was nonstop; fortunately, the Fenney household did not have cable. He had told Boo about her mother, but he was able to shield her from the worst of the news.
"Mother's in a place like that?"
"No. That's a prison. She's in jail."
"What's the difference?"
"I can get her out of jail."
She had left him for another man, a younger man who had given her what she had needed because her husband had not. Scott Fenney had failed her. Now, two years later, she needed what only Scott Fenney could give her: a defense to a murder charge. This time, he wouldn't fail her.
"I didn't kill him," she had pleaded on the phone. "I swear to God, I'm innocent."
Rebecca Fenney was not a murderer. Or his wife. But she was still the mother of his child. What does a man owe the mother of his child?
She said she had no money to hire a criminal defense lawyer. If Scott didn't defend her, a public defender would be appointed to represent her. Which was another way of saying, Rebecca Fenney would become Texas Inmate Number 155,001. She would spend the rest of her life in those bleak buildings behind those tall fences. Boo would visit her mother in prison.
She had left him, but she had not taken Boo from him. "You need her more than she needs me," she had said back then. That one act of kindness had saved Scott's life and had indebted him to her for life. He owed her.
A. Scott Fenney would defend the mother of his child.
SIX
Galveston is a sand barrier island situated fifty miles south of Houston and two miles off the Texas coast, a narrow spit of sand thirty miles long and less than three miles wide. The city sits at the east end of the island, protected by a ten-mile-long, seventeen-foot-tall concrete seawall constructed after the Great Storm of 1900. West of the seawall the island lies at the mercy of the sea. So, naturally, that is exactly where developers-flush with cash during the great credit boom of the early twenty-first century-built hotels, high-rise condos, and luxury beach homes. The homes sat atop ten-foot-tall stilts, but they weren't tall enough to withstand a hurricane pushing a seventeen-foot storm surge. On September 13, 2008, Hurricane Ike washed away the West End of Galveston Island. Exclusive beach-front subdivisions became streets of homeless stilts, as if God had dropped a box of giant toothpicks that had fallen to earth and embedded in the sand. The surviving houses held a lonely vigil on the desolate beach. In 1528, the Spanish explorer Cabeza de Vaca shipwrecked on Galveston Island and soon dubbed his new home the Isla de Malhado — the Island of Misfortune.
The title still fit.
Scott had rented one of those survivors for $2,000 a month, half the going price before Ike. It was out past the condos and hotels and fishing piers off San Luis Pass Road, a two-story house on stilts with six bedrooms and four baths right on the beach. He parked the Jetta in the shade of the house. It was just after three.
"Look-the beach!" Boo said.
Galveston Beach was not white sand and blue water with sleek cigarette boats cutting through the waves like in Florida. The sand was tan, the water brown, and the boats oil and cargo tankers heading to the Ship Channel and the Port of Houston. But it was still a beach, something not found in Dallas.
The girls bailed out and ran to the sand.
Bobby parked the Prius behind the Jetta. He had followed Scott Fenney since ninth grade, like a young boy follows an older brother. Even during the eleven-year gap when Scotty had left him for Ford Stevens and a Highland Park mansion, Bobby had followed him in the society pages and business section of the newspaper. Now he had followed him to Galveston to defend his ex-wife charged with murdering the man she had run off with. He had tried to get Scotty to think it through, but he had said he had no choice: she needed him. He was going to Galveston. Bobby couldn't let him go alone. Bobby Herrin was either loyal to a fault or he had a serious worship thing going.
Scott shielded his eyes from the sun and watched the girls on the beach. He turned back when Bobby got out of the Prius and said, "Forty-seven miles to the gallon, Scotty-doing seventy."
A born-again hybrid driver. Bobby helped Karen out of the car. Her belly seemed bigger than when they had left Dallas. She had a funny expression on her face.
"Another accident?" Bobby said.
She nodded. Bobby turned to Scott.
"Every time she laughs or cries, she pees her pants. She wears adult diapers now."
Karen was now the girls' de facto mother. They-and Scott-relied on her for the motherly touch, even though she was still two months away from being a mother.
"They're really not that bad," she said. "Although they do crawl up-"
The roar of a massive engine drowned out her voice and the image of her diaper crawling up from Scott's mind. The black Dodge Charger screeched to a stop, windows down and music blaring. Louis was singing along like a rock band's groupie, and Carlos was playing the drums with two pencils on the dashboard. Bobby shook his head.
"Five hours in a car without air-conditioning-the heat got to them."
Scott checked again on the girls. They were splashing through the surf. He cupped his mouth and yelled, "Stay where I can see you!"
The concert abruptly ended. Louis climbed out of the Charger and headed to the beach with a book in hand. Duty called.
"I got 'em," he said.
Next to the
house was a concrete basketball court, apparently the neighborhood playground when there was still a neighborhood. Under the house was an open garage. Scott counted four stilts in, then reached up and found the house key right where the rental service had said it would be. They climbed stairs to a deck overlooking the beach with chairs and a table with an umbrella. A digital thermometer mounted on the frame of a sliding glass door read "88" but the sea breeze made the air seem cooler. Scott unlocked the door and entered the house. Inside was a spacious room with a kitchen at one end and a living area with a big-screen television at the other. Two bedrooms with private baths were on that floor, and four bedrooms that shared two baths were on the top floor. Karen and Consuela checked out the kitchen, Carlos the refrigerator, and Bobby the television. He pointed the remote at the TV like a gunman holding up a convenience store and commenced channel-surfing.
"CNN, CMT, TNT, MTV, HBO… We must have a hundred cable channels."
The girls' wish had come true, at least for the summer.
"Consuela and I'll go get groceries," Karen said. "After Maria and I change our diapers."
Bobby had not turned from the television. "CNBC, MSNBC, Hallmark, Cartoon Channel, History Channel, Food Channel… Hey, pick up some beer, okay?"
"But not that light beer," Carlos said. "Man beer."
Karen laughed. "Man beer? Is that on the label? You want man beer, Carlos, you come with us. You can drive."
"Yeah, okay. Mr. Herrin, we get Telemundo? "
"I'm not there yet. Bravo, Disney, Discovery, SciFi… Yep, we got Telemundo."
"Oh, good. I won't miss Dona Barbara."
"Carlos, do you drink man beer while watching soap operas?"
"No. Just baseball and Dancing with the Stars. That Julianne girl, she is hot."
Scott felt as if he were starring in a reality show: Survivor-Galveston Island. A lawyer defends his ex-wife accused of murdering the star pro golfer she left him for. Who in Hollywood could dream that up? Who would dare? And the case would surely make the TV and tabloids. Scott Fenney might well end up the butt of jokes on Letterman- The Top 10 Reasons a Lawyer Would Defend His Ex-Wife — or at the annual state bar convention's gossip sessions. But if he didn't represent her, Rebecca Fenney would surely end up a prison inmate. He would blame himself, and one day, Boo would also blame him. He could not allow that day to come.
"Man," Bobby said, "we get all the sports channels-FSN, ESPN, Golf-"
Scott was standing at the open glass doors and staring out at a solitary seagull struggling against the wind when he realized the room behind him had fallen silent. He turned back. Everyone now stood frozen in place and focused on the TV. On the screen was the image of Trey Rawlins, shirtless and sweating-the man who had had sex with Scott's wife while she was still his wife-and who was now dead. He held up a glass of chocolate milk and in a smooth Texas drawl said, "Golfers are athletes too, even if you do ride in an electric cart. So after your round, you need a recovery drink-and the best recovery drink is all-natural chocolate milk, just like your mama used to give you after school." He gulped down the milk in one continuous drink and emerged with a brown upper lip and a big smile. "Got chocolate milk? Then get some."
The screen cut to the announcer: "That was Trey's final commercial."
Behind the announcer was a view of a green golf course; a byline read "Houston Classic." The pro golf tour was in Houston that week.
The announcer: "Trey Rawlins was coming off a big win at the California Challenge the week before and was even odds to win the Open in New York next week. His murder shocked the sports world and his fellow tour players."
"I'm stunned," a tanned golfer in a golf visor said. "Trey was like a brother to me."
"I can't believe he's dead," another golfer said. "I'm really gonna miss him."
"I wish I had his swing," a third golfer said.
The Trey Rawlins golf swing now filled the screen in slow-motion. It was a long, fluid, powerful swing-a thing of beauty. They were both things of beauty, Trey and his swing. Even if you didn't follow golf, you knew of Trey Rawlins. His face was everywhere; he endorsed golf equipment, golf apparel, sports drinks, and chocolate milk. He was clean-cut and handsome, young and vital; his hair was blond, his face tan, and his eyes a brilliant blue. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist.
"He had it all," the announcer said. "The swing, the putting stroke, the movie-star looks. Could he have been the next Tiger? Who knows? But in less than two years on tour, he had won four times, finished second seven times, and earned nine million dollars. His future was as bright as his smile. Trey Rawlins was the all-American boy."
Video played of Trey signing autographs for kids, teaching kids at junior golf clinics, visiting sick kids at a hospital, and announcing the establishment of the Trey Rawlins Foundation for Kids while surrounded by kids. He looked like Robert Redford in that scene from The Natural.
The announcer: "Trey cared deeply about giving back to the community."
That was followed by more testimonials, first from Trey's sports agent: "He wasn't just my client. He was my best friend."
And from his equipment sponsor: "We were honored to have Trey endorse our golf products, which he honestly felt were the best on the market. I loved the guy."
And finally from a tour official: "The fans have lost a great golfer and an even greater young man, and we have lost a brother, a member of the tour family."
The screen lingered on the image of Trey Rawlins with the sick kids.
Scott had never paid much attention to Trey when he had worked at the Highland Park Country Club: Trey Rawlins had been one of the young assistant pros who came and went with the seasons; A. Scott Fenney had been a member in good standing at the most exclusive country club in Dallas. They had not occupied the same social stratum. But then Rebecca Fenney had fled Dallas with the assistant pro who soon became a star on the pro golf tour; and A. Scott Fenney had soon lost his membership, his mansion, and his Ferrari-as well as his wife. But he had never blamed Trey. He had taken Scott's wife, but he couldn't take someone who wasn't there for the taking. So while Trey's death had brought Scott's wife back to him, it had brought him no solace.
When the broadcast resumed, the announcer said, "Trey is survived by his twin sister, Terri Rawlins. Funeral services will be held Thursday in Galveston, where we now go live to Renee Ramirez for an update on the criminal investigation."
The picture cut to a beautiful young Latina reporter standing in front of a low-slung building with “Galveston County Jail” over the entrance doors.
"Trey Rawlins, the fifth-ranked professional golfer in the world, was found brutally murdered in the bedroom of his multimillion-dollar Galveston beach house early Friday morning. He was only twenty-eight years old."
A video showed workers wearing white jumpsuits with "Galveston County Medical Examiner" printed on the back removing a body from a white beach house.
Back to the reporter: "Galveston Police Detective Chuck Wilson gave a statement to the media Friday morning outside the murder scene."
A clip from the interview played. The detective was middle-aged and tall and stood before a dozen microphones clumped together on a podium under a palm tree with the surf breaking behind him. He wore sunglasses and looked like Dirty Harry.
"At approximately three-fifty this morning police were called to the residence of Trey Rawlins, the professional golfer. Mr. Rawlins was found in his bed, deceased. He had been stabbed. Police found Rebecca Fenney, age thirty-five, in the residence with his blood on her body and clothing. We questioned Ms. Fenney, and at approximately eight this morning, we placed Ms. Fenney under arrest for the murder of Trey Rawlins. She is currently being held at the county jail."
An image of Rebecca and Trey in happier times appeared on the screen. The reporter said, "Rebecca Fenney was Trey Rawlins' longtime companion on tour. She now stands accused of his murder. She's being held without bail pending her indictment by the grand jury, but she has denied kill
ing Trey. I've learned that her ex-husband, a Dallas lawyer, has notified police that he is representing her. He is expected to arrive in town today, so I've been waiting here hoping to get a word with him. Back to you, Hal."
Hal, the announcer: "Her ex-husband is defending her? For murdering the man she ran off with? Can he do that? Isn't that some kind of conflict of interest? Or at least a conflicted interest?" Hal shook his head. "Well, that proves he's a better man than me."
Back to the reporter: "No, Hal, that proves he's a better lawyer than you. For enough money, a lawyer will represent anyone-even his wife who left him for the man she's now accused of murdering."
Scott sighed and said, "Ex-wife."
SEVEN
The Galveston County Jail stands at 54th and Ball Street, one block off Broadway, the main drag on the Island. The sand-colored, 1,250-bed structure is framed by palm trees and gives the impression of a retirement community. For some of the inmates, it might be.
Scott steered the Jetta into the parking lot and saw that Renee Ramirez and her cameraman remained camped out on the front sidewalk. But she was expecting a Dallas lawyer-a guy wearing a suit and driving a luxury automobile, not a guy wearing shorts and sneakers and driving a Volkswagen-so Scott walked right past her without attracting more than a coy smile and a whiff of her sweet perfume. He entered the lobby and went over to the bail window but turned at the sound of chains dragging across concrete: a line of tattooed men wearing white GALVESTON COUNTY INMATE jumpsuits and shackles shuffled past and through a secure door under the close supervision of two guards packing pump shotguns, but not before one inmate said something in Spanish to a female guard and grabbed his crotch, which earned him a rifle butt rammed into his ribs.
"Help you?"
Scott turned back to the window. A chubby young man who looked more like a mall cop than a certified Texas peace officer addressed him. He wore a khaki Galveston County Sheriff's Department uniform and sat at a desk on the other side of the open window. Behind him, more uniformed officers sat at desks scattered about the room.