Accused sf-2

by Mark Gimenez

  They did not appear mean-spirited. In fact, they appeared like the men you might meet on the street, men who smiled and said "hidi" and held doors open for ladies, men who readily stopped and fixed a stranded woman's flat tire, men who attended church. They were just regular folks who cared about their community.

  And like regular folks, they feared crime.

  They saw on television and read in newspapers about brutal, stupid, senseless violent crimes committed every day in America, and they were afraid. They couldn't keep criminals off the Island, so they did the only thing they knew to keep their Island safe: they indicted every person the district attorney brought before them. And why shouldn't they? They had voted for the D.A. They trusted him. If he said someone should stand trial, who were they to question his judgment? They weren't lawyers. He was. They didn't know the law. He did. And he had promised to keep them safe from crime.

  Consequently, no lawyer in America holds more power than a county prosecutor.

  At exactly nine o'clock, Galveston County Assistant Criminal District Attorney Theodore Newman, his face aglow with a prosecutor's power, stood and told the grand jurors that Rebecca Fenney had murdered Trey Rawlins by stabbing an eight-inch butcher knife from her own kitchen into his chest while he slept in their bed. He called one witness, Detective Chuck Wilson, who testified that Rebecca Fenney's fingerprints were found on the murder weapon.

  None of the grand jurors asked a single question.

  By law, no one-not even the district attorney-is allowed inside the room while the grand jurors deliberate and vote to either "true bill"-indict-or "no bill"-decline to indict-the accused. So at nine-fifteen that morning, Scott was sitting outside on a bench in the corridor. The fact that a grand jury was voting at that very moment to indict his ex-wife for murder-and knowing he was powerless to stop it-made his face flush hot. He would have to tell the mother of his child that she would stand trial for murder and that if convicted, she could be sentenced to life in prison.

  But not to death.

  The death penalty may be assessed only for "capital murders": serial murders; murders of children, cops, firefighters, judges, and prison guards; murders committed in the course of a rape, kidnapping, robbery, or arson; and murders for hire. Simply shooting, stabbing, or beating another human being to death with a baseball bat will get you five years to life in prison.

  If the district attorney had his way, Rebecca Fenney would spend the rest of her life inside those bleak brick buildings behind the tall fence with concertina wire. Boo would visit her mother in prison-unless her father found the killer. He was her only hope. Their only hope.

  Scott's face still felt hot when the world around him suddenly turned a bright searing white. He thought the girls' fear had come true-he really was having a heart attack or perhaps a stroke-until he heard a female voice: "Mr. Fenney, do you think the grand jury will indict your wife?"

  Scott shielded his eyes from the light and saw a woman holding a microphone in his face. Renee Ramirez.

  "Ex-wife."

  Scott stood and walked down the hall to the men's room.

  By nine-thirty, the grand jury had voted to indict Rebecca Fenney for murder.

  Indictment starts the clock ticking in the American criminal justice system. Both the U.S. and Texas Constitutions guarantee the right to a speedy trial. Under federal law, the defendant must be tried within seventy days of indictment; the general rule under Texas law is one hundred eighty days, unless the defendant agrees to a continuance. Most do. Rebecca Fenney would not. She could not afford to live in doubt for more than six months, and her lawyer could not afford to live in Galveston for more than sixty days.

  The clock was now ticking on Rebecca Fenney's freedom.

  Renee Ramirez had retreated to the entrance lobby where she was flirting with the deputies manning the metal detector, and Scott was again sitting on the bench outside the Grand Jury Room when the D.A. sat down next to him. Rex Truitt's face was not aglow with power; it was weary with the responsibility of putting American citizens in prison for the last twenty-eight years.

  "You really gonna do it? Defend her?"

  Scott nodded. "I have to."

  "I suppose you do. Well, bring her in Monday, nine A.M. I'll hold the warrant till then. We'll book her and arraign her."

  "Thanks, Rex. That wouldn't happen in Dallas."

  "This ain't Dallas." The D.A. loosened his tie. "Might want to leave out the back way. Renee's out front. She's a goddamn pit bull with makeup." The D.A. leaned back. "Twenty years, Scott."

  "What?"

  "Plea bargain. Twenty years for her guilty plea. Life expectancy of a white female in the U.S. is seventy-eight. She'll be eligible for parole in ten. We'll agree not to oppose it. She'll be forty-five, have thirty-three good years left. But if we go to trial, Scott, we're asking for life without parole. She did it, and the jury will convict her."

  "She didn't do it, Rex."

  "You find any evidence of that?"

  "I found someone with a motive to murder Trey."

  "Who?"

  "His ex-caddie. Clyde Dalton, goes by 'Goose.' "

  "I've seen him on TV. What's his story?"

  "Trey fired him down in Mexico a few months ago-"

  "I remember something about that."

  "Then refused to pay Goose the hundred thousand he owed him."

  "A hundred grand? That's what caddies make?"

  "Ten percent for a win."

  "Shit, I should've been a caddie."

  "Goose wasn't happy about it. He was caddying in Florida last Thursday for another player, but he flew back to Austin that same day, got in at five, which means-"

  "He could've driven down here in time to kill Trey."

  Scott nodded.

  "Except his prints aren't on the murder weapon."

  Scott reached into his briefcase and removed the baggie holding Goose's beer can.

  "His prints are on this can. I can get a private lab to run them, but you could have the state lab run them, see if they match the unidentified prints at the crime scene. See if he was in Trey's house that day."

  "You trust me not to hide the results?"

  Scott looked the D.A. in the eye. "I do."

  The D.A. took the baggie. "Okay, I'll run 'em. What else?"

  "We learned some things about Trey."

  "Such as?"

  "Porn and Viagra."

  "You're gonna put him on trial, aren't you?"

  "No. I'm going to find his killer."

  "Just look across the dinner table tonight." He ran his hand through his white hair. "Scott, I take Viagra. Hell, every guy over forty out at the club swears by that blue pill. It's the elixir of youth, and it's legal. So is porn. Stay in a five-star hotel and you can watch it for free. Not my cup of tea, but what a man does is his business, as long as he doesn't do it with children or in public."

  "But porn and Viagra-that doesn't exactly fit his all-American chocolate-milk public image, does it? Maybe there's another side to Trey Rawlins."

  "Scott, some pro athletes are exactly what they seem to be. Some don't have a dark side."

  "Rex, you ever heard of denial?"

  "Have you?"

  He was an old lawyer in an old office in an old building in the old part of downtown.

  "Trey never executed a will."

  Melvyn Burke was the older man in the suit at the funeral. And he wore a suit that hot and humid Friday morning. He had practiced law on the Island for forty-two years. Wills and estates mostly, some contracts and real estate. He was representing the Estate of Trey Rawlins, and he appeared to be carrying the weight of the world on his slumped shoulders. Thirty minutes after leaving the courthouse, Scott sat on the other side of Melvyn Burke's desk.

  "So under the intestacy laws," Melvyn said, "his entire estate goes to his only surviving relative, Terri Rawlins, his sister. Rebecca's entitled to nothing."

  "You represented Trey on all his legal matters?"

  M
elvyn nodded. "Except his endorsement contracts. His agent handled those. I handled his personal matters-the house, cars, boat. Rex let you take Rebecca's clothes from the house?"

  "And makeup. Can she have her jewelry? They were gifts from Trey."

  "I'll talk to Terri." He exhaled heavily. "She's really got the red ass for Rebecca."

  "Why?"

  "Because she thinks Rebecca killed her twin brother."

  "What do you think?"

  "I think you should hire another lawyer to represent your wife."

  "Melvyn, I couldn't afford to hire myself."

  "Scott, a lawyer can only defend his client. He can't love her, too. You lose, it'll ruin your career. And your life."

  "Would you stand by and watch an innocent person be sent to prison?"

  Melvyn's eyes dropped, and Scott knew there was more to learn from Melvyn Burke. Behind his eyes resided a lifetime of clients' secrets-and the burden that comes with keeping them secret. For a moment, Scott thought Melvyn would not speak again. But he finally looked up and said, "The car is hers."

  "What car?"

  "The red Corvette. Trey had me put the title in her name."

  Melvyn opened a clasp folder and removed a set of car keys. He slid them across the desk to Scott.

  "Car's not part of the probate estate. You can take it."

  "What are you going to do with the rest of Trey's property?"

  "Estate sale. Terri doesn't want the house where her brother was killed or the Bentley he drove. And she lives in Austin, so she's got no use for the yacht. With the economy, it's not exactly the best time to sell a two-million-dollar boat. Broker says we'll be lucky to get five hundred thousand."

  "Was Trey involved in any lawsuits?"

  "No."

  "Melvyn, you got any idea who might've killed him?"

  "Rex says your wife did."

  "She didn't. I'm trying to find the real killer."

  "So what do you want from me?"

  "Information. About Trey. Did he say anything to you? About anything going on in his life? Anything that might tell us who killed him? Was he going to marry Rebecca?"

  "Attorney-client privilege, Scott."

  "Your client's dead."

  "The privilege lives on, you know that."

  "His sister is his personal representative. She can waive it."

  "She won't."

  "Why not?"

  "Like I said, she thinks your wife killed her brother."

  "Ex-wife."

  Scott held out his card.

  "That's my cell phone. If you think of anything, Melvyn, please call me. I don't want an innocent person to go to prison."

  "Grand jury indict her?"

  "This morning."

  EIGHTEEN

  Murder is about motive. A reason to kill. The district attorney was right: there's always a reason for one human being to kill another. But Rebecca Fenney had no reason to kill Trey Rawlins. She had no motive to murder.

  But Clyde "Goose" Dalton did. Men kill for money. Trey had refused to pay the one hundred thousand dollars he owed Goose. Bobby was also right: in some parts of America a few bucks will get you killed. A hundred thousand was a whole lot of motive.

  And Brett McBride had a motive: Trey was having sex with his wife. Men kill in fits of rage and passion. History is replete and prisons are crowded with men who caught their wives having sex with another man and who then murdered that man-although until recently such an act had been deemed justifiable homicide in Texas.

  Rebecca Fenney had no motive to murder Trey Rawlins, but she still stood indicted for his murder. She would stand trial and, if convicted, be sentenced to prison for life. Unless Scott found the real killer. Someone who had a motive to murder.

  He was betting on a jilted caddie or a jealous husband.

  Scott walked through the entrance gate to the Houston Classic just after one that same day. The circus atmosphere and WM squared and two-pieces had returned for the second round. He went into the merchandise tent and purchased an official tournament tote bag then found Nick Madden outside a hospitality tent drinking a beer and talking on his cell phone.

  "Shit, is that a felony?… How old was she?… Sixteen?… He could just deny it, say she's lying 'cause he's a big star… Oh, they got DNA evidence?… Dumbass never heard of safe sex?… What's he looking at?… Five to ten?… Jesus, that's gonna kill his endorsements."

  He noticed Scott and held up a finger.

  Into the phone: "Keep me in the loop."

  He disconnected and turned to Scott.

  "Football player. His idea of a good time is getting stoned and screwing a high school girl. Sophomore. How am I supposed to make money off guys like that?" He sighed and shook his head. "We create the perfect public image for our athletes, teach them how to say a complete sentence without using the F-word, dress them up, get their teeth whitened, surround them with kids… then they have a fucking Serena moment on national TV or they get caught with drugs or dog-fighting or carrying a loaded gun into a New York nightclub or screwing an under-age girl and their perfect image is blown to kingdom come… and their endorsements with it. WM squared don't like that kind of shit, Scott."

  He took a swig of his beer then pointed a thumb at the tent behind him that bore the name of a national bank.

  "Bank's broke, using their bailout money for a beer bash." He held up his bottle. "Beer's free-you want one?"

  "No thanks."

  "So, did the grand jury indict her?"

  "This morning."

  "Goose still a suspect?"

  "The prime suspect."

  "But Rebecca's going to trial?"

  "Unless I find the killer."

  "What if you already have?"

  "Why didn't you go to the funeral?"

  "I was working a deal for another client, corporate sponsorship-"

  "That's more important than Trey's funeral?"

  "It was for that client-I got him two million, just to put a company logo on his bag and cap." He drank his beer. "Look, Scott, athletes are high-risk clients. Some are gonna self-destruct, with alcohol or drugs or girls"-he held up his cell phone-"like this guy. He's making ten million this year, next year he's gonna be making license plates. That's just the way it is with pro athletes."

  "Did Trey self-destruct?"

  Nick averted his eyes just as a loud cheer went up from the eighteenth green.

  "Someone made a putt."

  "No tour player showed up."

  Nick turned his palms up. "Can't have a funeral on Thursday-first round of the tournament." He chuckled. "Some guys out here had their kids' births induced so they wouldn't interfere with their tournament schedules. No way a funeral gets priority."

  "Where can I find Brett and Tess McBride?"

  "Brett's on the course, which means Tess is in the margarita tent."

  Nick led the way toward another white tent.

  "Tell me about him."

  "Not much to tell. Brett's only claim to fame is that he's a dead ringer for that guy in Sling Blade. Could be why Tess cheats on him. Anyway, Brett's thirty-seven and on the downside of his career, not that he ever really had an upside. Fifteen years on tour, he's never come close to winning."

  "How can he make a living out here if he never wins?"

  "Because everyone on tour makes at least a million bucks a year. See, Scott, maybe twenty players got a real chance of winning out here, the rest of the guys are just fillers-they fill out the field. But it beats working for a living as a country club pro, giving lessons to old ladies and selling shoes. Brett played every tournament last year, never finished higher than thirtieth, still made one-point-three million. Two years ago, he finished in the top ten at Tahoe-you'd think he'd won the fucking Super Bowl."

  "What's Tess's story?"

  Nick just grinned.

  "Every time I see her, I want to order chicken wings and a beer."

  Tess McBride was lean, blonde, and dressed like a Hooter's girl. She wore re
d short-shorts and a white T-shirt tight across her ample bosom. They were admiring Tess from across the tent where waitresses in miniskirts and cowboy boots served cold beer to WM squared and margaritas to hot two-pieces. A big-screen TV broadcasting the tournament hung on one wall of the tent, a beer booth with neon signs occupied another, and a margarita bar with a tiki hut decor the third. Tess stood near the margarita machine and held a big plastic goblet filled with a slushy green concoction. Two young men who looked like college athletes bookended her.

  "She's twenty-four," Nick said as they weaved their way around tables toward her. "Thirteen years younger and a helluva lot better looking than Brett. The money improves his looks, but still…"

  When they arrived, Nick interrupted her conversation with the young men like a father breaking up a teenage groping session on the den couch.

  "Excuse us, boys, but we need to talk with Missus McBride."

  The men recoiled as if Tess had suddenly revealed a nasty rash.

  "You're married? " one of the men said.

  Tess answered with a lame shrug. The college boys retreated to the beer booth.

  "Thanks a lot, Nick."

  "You are married, Tess."

  "I was just having a little fun."

  "You're always just having a little fun."

  "You sound like my mother when I was in high school."

  "Well, Tess, corporate sponsors don't like their athletes' wives acting like horny high school girls. You keep this up, they'll dump Brett and you'll be back waiting tables at Hooters."

  She smiled at Scott. "I finished second in the Miss Hooters Pageant last year."

  Nick rolled his eyes. "So you've told everyone on tour."

  "Which got me a spread in Playboy."

  "And you sure as hell spread 'em."

  Tess looked Scott up and down. He had stopped off at the house and changed into jeans, sneakers, and a knit shirt. She leaned into him, close enough for him to smell the tequila on her breath.