Accused sf-2

by Mark Gimenez

  "You know her? This Tess?"

  Nick nodded. "Everyone knows Tess, if you know what I mean. Brett was a judge in the Miss Hooters pageant in Vegas last year. She was runner-up, they got married five months later, at the Reno tournament."

  "And you represent him, too?"

  Nick nodded again. Scott turned back to Goose.

  "A jealous husband… Did Brett know?"

  "They're still married."

  "Did Rebecca know?"

  "I don't think so." He pulled a thick cigar out of the golf bag, bit off the tip, and spit it across the practice tee. "Trey was an idiot, taking a chance on losing her over Tess. I mean, Tess is hot, sure, but Rebecca's world-class gorgeous. She had options out here, could've switched bags anytime she wanted."

  "Trey ever mention to you that he was going to marry her? Rebecca."

  "Nope."

  Goose dug around in his shirt pocket, pulled out a wooden match, and struck it on the bottom of the golf bag until it ignited. He put the flame to the cigar and puffed until the cigar caught fire. He took a long drag and exhaled smoke then gave Scott a thoughtful look.

  "Lawyering for your ex-what's that all about? She must be paying you a boatload of Trey's money."

  "She's indigent."

  "Hell, I'd be pissed off, too, way Trey treated her."

  "Not indignant. Indigent. Means she doesn't have any money. All of Trey's money goes to his sister."

  Goose grunted. "He stiffed her, too, huh? Figures." He sucked on the cigar and blew out smoke. "You know, I've always wondered something, about Rebecca?"

  "What's that?"

  "Is she a natural redhead?"

  "Goose, as a general rule, I don't punch caddies, but I'm willing to make an exception with you."

  Goose grinned. "Still touchy about the ex, huh? Wait'll you got three of them." He stood and said, "I gotta pee… fucking prostate."

  Goose hefted the big bag. He ducked under the rope that kept the fans off the range and walked off. He didn't pick up his beer can.

  "Are they here? Brett and Tess?"

  Nick shook his head. "Brett played this morning-today's the pro-am-then had a corporate gig this afternoon. Tess goes with him, makes him seem more attractive, if you know what I mean."

  "They'll be here through Sunday?"

  "If his play this year holds true, Brett'll miss the cut, fly home Friday night. You want to talk to them, you'd better come out tomorrow or Friday. I'll be here."

  Scott pulled a pen from his pocket. He squatted and inserted the pen into the top opening of Goose's beer can.

  "I'll buy you a beer, Scott."

  "I don't want the beer. I want Goose's fingerprints."

  "Why?"

  Scott looked up at Nick. "Because Goose might've stuck that butcher knife in Trey Rawlins' chest."

  SIXTEEN

  "Galveston nine-one-one. What's your emergency?"

  "There's a knife in his chest!"

  "Whose chest?"

  "There's blood everywhere!"

  "Whose blood?"

  "I think he's dead!"

  "Who's dead?"

  "Someone killed him!"

  "Who?"

  "Trey! Trey Rawlins!"

  "The golfer?"

  "Yes!"

  "Ma'am, I'm dispatching police to your location."

  "Thank God! Hurry!"

  "Who killed him?"

  "I don't know."

  "Is anyone else in the house?"

  "I… I don't know. I hope not."

  "Where are you?"

  "In our bedroom."

  "Stay there. Stay on the phone until the police arrive."

  "I hear the sirens. Tell them to come up the back stairs. The doors are open. I'm right inside."

  "What's your name?"

  "Rebecca Fenney."

  "Stay with me, Rebecca."

  A few minutes passed. The dispatcher's voice could be heard in the background and Rebecca's intermittent "Oh, God" and "Trey" and "So much blood."

  Then the dispatcher's voice came back on. "You still with me, Rebecca?"

  Her voice sounded weak: "Yes."

  "Rebecca, the police are there."

  In the background: "Police! We're coming in!"

  "I'm in here! Thank God you're here!"

  "Ma'am, are you okay?"

  "Yes."

  "Don't move until we clear the house."

  Only her breathing could be heard and then a voice in the background: "House is clear. Ma'am, hang up the phone, I've got dispatch on my radio… Dispatch, it's a murder scene. Send out homicide, M.E., crime scene… Shit, send everyone." A pause. "The poor bastard."

  The tape ended, and they sat without speaking. It was the next morning, and Scott and Bobby were sitting in the Jetta in the parking lot across 34th Street from St. Patrick's Catholic Church listening to the 911 call on the CD player and looking at the crime scene photos of Rebecca with Trey Rawlins' blood streaked down her face like war paint. Parked on the street was a satellite TV truck; loitering outside the church doors was Renee Ramirez in a tight short skirt.

  "The D.A. was right," Bobby said.

  "About what?"

  "Renee. She does have great legs."

  Inside Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel under a twelve-story-tall bell tower, the funeral mass for Trey Rawlins was taking place. Bobby pointed at the church.

  "Did you know that after the Great Storm, they raised this entire island above sea level, six feet on the bay side, seventeen feet on the Gulf side? That church weighs three thousand tons. They jacked it up and filled in underneath. They wanted storm water to flow to the bay side. It worked. Problem was, Ike flooded the Island from the bay side."

  "I didn't know that. How'd you know that?"

  "Tourist guide, at the beach house." He shrugged. "Wife's seven months' pregnant. I read in bed a lot."

  "Me, too."

  "You don't have a wife."

  "That's why I read in bed."

  Bobby grunted. "You think the caddie killed Trey?"

  "Goose has big hands and a good motive-a hundred thousand dollars."

  "A bus token will get you killed in some parts of Dallas. You gonna take his prints to the D.A.?"

  "Tomorrow, at the grand jury. We wouldn't get them back in time anyway, and Rex wouldn't stop the indictment even if Goose's prints match those on the kitchen counter, not with Rebecca's prints on the murder weapon. After the hearing, I'm going back out to the tournament, talk to Brett and Tess McBride, get their prints. Trey and Tess, that's a good motive for a jealous husband. You were right, Trey cheated on Rebecca."

  "She cheated on you, he cheated on her. Funny how that works."

  "Yeah. Funny."

  "Least we've got more suspects." Bobby ticked them off on his fingers. "The three unidentified sets of prints at the house, the construction workers-"

  "Is Carlos on that?"

  "He hired on yesterday." Back to his fingers. "Goose, Brett, and

  …"

  "Rebecca." Bobby nodded. "She didn't sound like a killer on that 911 call."

  "No, she didn't. But her prints were on that knife stuck in Trey's chest."

  "The others had motives, Bobby. She didn't."

  "Unless she knew about Trey and Tess."

  "Yeah. Unless." Scott considered that possibility. "Only if Trey were leaving her for Tess. What else?"

  "Karen's reviewing Trey's endorsement contracts-"

  SSI's legal department had released copies without a subpoena.

  — "and running assets searches on Trey and Rebecca. I've been through the murder book, read all the witness statements and police reports. I'm waiting for the final autopsy report, toxicology, and DNA."

  "Grand jury will indict tomorrow, we'll fast-track the trial, you and Karen prep for that."

  "Yep. Oh, I went out to Trey's country club, talked to the assistant pro. He said Trey came out that morning, Thursday, but he left just after noon, didn't come back."

  "Rebecca
said he practiced all day, while she shopped in Houston."

  "He lied."

  "About a lot of things."

  Bobby gestured at the church. "They're coming out."

  He grabbed the camcorder and filmed the funeral guests exiting the church.

  "That's Trey's sister," Rebecca said. "Terri hates me."

  The image on the screen was of a young woman in a black dress. Scott, Bobby, Karen, and Rebecca were inside watching the funeral tape. The girls were outside with Consuela and the baby. Louis was watching them. Carlos was roofing.

  "Why?"

  "She thought I was too old for him, didn't want him to marry me. At least that's what he said." She shook her head. "I should've gone to the funeral."

  "Media was there," Scott said. "Wouldn't have been good." He pointed at the screen. "There's the D.A. and his wife, Tom Taylor and his." An older man in a suit and a woman walked next to them. "Who's that?"

  "I don't know."

  On the screen, Renee Ramirez stuck a microphone in the D.A.'s face, but he waved her off. She wasn't happy.

  "Rebecca, you should stay here at the house."

  "Why?"

  "That reporter-"

  "Renee."

  "You know her?"

  "Everyone on the Island knows Renee. She did a profile of Trey."

  "If she finds out you're here, she'll set up camp out front."

  She gestured at the screen. "Where's Nick? Didn't he come?"

  "No."

  "That's odd. I don't see any of the tour players. First round of the tournament in Houston is today, but still… you'd think some of the players would've come."

  "Freeze that frame, Bobby." On the screen was the image of a very pretty and very young blonde woman. She looked like a high school girl. "Is that Tess McBride?"

  "No, that's Billie Jean Puckett. Pete's daughter. I don't see Pete."

  "What does he look like?"

  "Like Rambo with a two-iron."

  "She looks like a kid."

  "She's only seventeen. She used to caddie for Pete, until he picked up Goose."

  "After Trey fired him."

  "Down in Mexico." She frowned. "You don't think Goose killed Trey?"

  "Trey didn't pay Goose the hundred thousand he owed him. Goose wasn't happy about it. Bobby, fast forward to the cemetery."

  The tape sped up then slowed to normal speed. The scene showed a crowd gathered around a gravesite in a cemetery crowded with tall tombstones and small mausoleums as the casket was lowered into the ground. After the burial, the crowd lingered a while then drifted away. Except for Billie Jean Puckett.

  "Why'd she stay after everyone else left?" Rebecca said. "Why'd she come?"

  They watched the image on the tape. The girl sat next to the grave and seemed to be sobbing. Rebecca stared silently at the screen. Finally, she turned to Scott.

  "Why'd you think she was Tess?"

  "Rebecca… Goose said Trey was having an affair with Tess."

  She shook her head. "No. Tess played around, a lot, but not with Trey. We were friends, she wouldn't do that to me. Neither would Trey."

  "You did it to me."

  "I'm sorry, Scott."

  "No. I mean, it happens. Even when you think it'd never happen."

  "I would've known."

  "I didn't."

  "Will you take a polygraph?"

  "To prove I didn't know about Tess?"

  "To prove you didn't kill Trey. If you pass, the D.A. might drop the charges."

  "And if I don't pass?"

  Scott didn't say anything.

  "Don't worry, Scott, I'll pass. I'm not the Guilty Groupie."

  "So you'll do it?"

  "Sure. And I don't believe Trey had an affair with Tess."

  That she agreed to take a polygraph told Scott all he needed to know about his client. But there was more he needed to know about his ex-wife.

  "Why didn't you tell me the truth back then? How you really felt?"

  They were walking the beach at sunset. It was peaceful out here, and with ten people living in the house, the beach offered the only privacy available for a confidential conversation between an attorney and client-or a man and his ex-wife.

  "Scott, we learn when we're girls to lie to men."

  "Why?"

  "To survive. So we don't hurt our man's fragile psyche and lose him and our place in life. 'Yes, honey, of course, you're the first'… 'Of course, you're the best'… 'Of course, I came.' "

  "Did you lie to me about that?"

  "No."

  "Are you lying now?"

  "No."

  "How do I know?"

  "You don't. Men never know when we're lying to them. Men don't want to know. Men can't handle the truth."

  "Do all women lie?"

  "All women live in a man's world, so all women lie. They have to. At least all women who depend on a man for their survival. Everything we need comes from a man-our homes, our cars, our jewelry, our shoes-because it's a man's world. You see on TV these women writing books about dating and marriage, they're all titled 'How to Marry a Rich Man.' And the advice is to lie. Lie about your past, lie about your future, lie about your needs and wants and desires, lie about who you really are so he'll marry you. We lie to get married and we lie to stay married. We can't tell the truth and risk having our existence taken from us."

  "Men don't have a clue about women, do we?"

  "Not a clue."

  They walked through the sand in silence.

  "Scott, why do you think women buy millions of romance novels every year?"

  "I don't know."

  "Because in romance novels the women aren't dependent on men, not sexually or financially. They're in control of their bodies and their bank accounts, they have the power, they have the money. Not being financially dependent on a man, that's a woman's true romantic fantasy."

  "I guess we should make women take polygraphs before marriage."

  "We'd find a way to beat it. Truth or lie, right or wrong, black or white-that's a man's life. Women live in shades of gray."

  Scott stared down the sand to the girls playing in front of the house with little Maria and Consuela in a Mexican peasant dress. Louis stood nearby reading his book.

  "Will Boo and Pajamae lie to men?"

  "Yes, they will."

  "I don't want them to."

  "Then go back to Ford Stevens and make millions so they'll be financially independent. So they can be honest with the men in their lives. So they don't have to hide who they really are. So they won't have to compete for their men every day of their lives."

  "Compete for their men?"

  "Scott, a woman always has to compete for her man."

  "Why?"

  "Because in every woman's life, there's always another woman."

  Rebecca spoke as if reading a verse from the Bible.

  "The players competed on the course, we competed for the players off the course. More tour women working out in the fitness trailer than tour players."

  "That's what Nick said."

  She patted her flat abs. "Two hundred sit-ups a day, an hour on the StairMaster, another hour on the Bowflex. I could compete."

  She was in very good shape. Which was evident in the skimpy yellow bikini. The sea breeze brought her scent to him. He breathed her in.

  "And it's worse for a beautiful woman."

  "Why is it worse to be beautiful?"

  "Because a beautiful girl is supposed to be a sex object, not a person. She's supposed to sell her beauty to the highest bidder-that's a beautiful woman's career path. That's how my mother raised me, to be a thing of beauty, to be admired and purchased by a man. And men expect to buy you, just like they buy a sports car. A beautiful woman is a possession a man shows off to other men, and when that possession gets a little dinged up, he trades it in for a new model. You saw the women out there on tour-you see any ugly women with those rich golfers?"

  "No. So you knew about Trey and Tess?"

 
; "No. But I'm not stupid. On tour, there are always women making themselves available to the players. Christ, Tess McBride was a Hooters girl."

  "She placed second in the Miss Hooters pageant."

  "I placed first in the Miss SMU pageant, and there's not a Hooters girl in the world who can compete with an SMU coed."

  She was right.

  "I'm going to talk to her. Tess."

  "When?"

  "Tomorrow, at the tournament. After the grand jury hearing."

  "Why?"

  "Because I think someone on the pro golf tour killed Trey."

  SEVENTEEN

  Four fail-safes exist to protect the accused in the American criminal justice system: the grand jury, the district attorney, the judge, and the trial jury.

  In Texas, politics quickly overcomes the district attorney and the judge-they're lawyers, they're ambitious, and they're elected. And emotion and prejudice overcome trial juries before they are even seated. By the first day of trial, the publicity surrounding the case-especially a high-profile murder case-has overwhelmed the jurors' impartiality. Judgments have already been made, if not rendered. Every lawyer knows that there is no such thing as an impartial jury. Everyone is partial. Which leaves the grand jury as an innocent person's only hope for justice.

  In Texas, one shouldn't hold out much hope.

  Grand juries in Texas are selected pursuant to the "key man" system: the presiding judge picks three grand jury commissioners-that is, three friends-who in turn pick twelve grand jurors-their friends-who then sit as the grand jury. A few judges have recognized the bias inherent in the key man system and have opted for random selection of grand jurors from voter registration records-but only a few, because to buck the system is to ensure that you will never move up to higher judicial office.

  Judge Shelby Morgan wanted to move up.

  The Grand Jury Room was located on the first floor of the Galveston County Courts Building adjacent to the district attorney's office. Which was convenient. The D.A. didn't have to walk far to get an indictment.

  Scott sat on the front row and observed the twelve friends-the Galveston County Grand Jury-gathered that Friday morning. Non-lawyers would expect a grand jury to be just that: grand. Special. Noble. It wasn't. It was painfully normal. The jurors were all white men, which did not present a constitutional issue since Rebecca Fenney was white. Only one juror wore a tie; the others wore shirts and slacks or jeans. One owned an Italian restaurant, another a furniture store, a third an insurance agency. One was a dentist, another the plant manager at a refinery. All were BOI-born on the Island. It seemed more like a meeting of the local rotary club than a grand jury about to decide whether an American citizen should stand trial for murder.