by Mark Gimenez
"You do that for a lot of your customers?"
"Only two. Now only one."
"So you've been in his house?"
"Of course."
"Have you ever been arrested?"
"Twice. Charges were dismissed."
"But you were fingerprinted?"
"Yes."
Benito's prints were in the system, which meant his prints did not match the unidentified prints at the crime scene.
"You seem to operate without much interference from the law."
Benito smiled. "Let us just say that no one wants me on the witness stand, telling the world who my customers are."
"Let's stick with one customer. How'd you make the deliveries to Trey's house?"
"He gave me a key to the garage door. I put the product in the dumb waiter, pushed the up button for the fourth floor. His office."
"How often did you make deliveries?"
"Weekly."
"When?"
Benito shrugged. "Whenever."
"During the day?"
"Yes."
"And how did he pay you?"
"When I returned, the money would be waiting for me."
"In the dumb waiter?"
"In the Hummer."
"So you had no problems with Trey?"
"I did not say that."
"What was the problem?"
"Trey owed me five hundred thousand dollars."
"That's a lot of cocaine."
"It is very high quality. He wanted only the best. And I assumed he shared with your wife."
"So why didn't he pay? He was rich."
"He did not inform me when he went on tour, so I made my weekly deliveries. He would be gone two, three, sometimes four weeks at a time. I would put each week's delivery in the dumb waiter, with the prior deliveries. He would collect the deliveries when he returned, and he always paid me in full. This past April, he went on tour again-I know, because I saw him on TV, he missed a very short putt and lost-but this time the dumb waiter was empty every week. And there was no money in the Hummer. So I assumed he had someone collect it for him, send it to him on tour."
Benito exhaled heavily.
"I trusted Trey. Like a brother. So one day he called me, said he had been out of town for six weeks, said he needed a delivery. I said he must first pay what he owed, five hundred thousand. He said he did not receive the deliveries. I explained how I had made the deliveries, how the dumb waiter was empty each week…"
Benito shook his head; he seemed genuinely upset.
"He accused me of cheating him."
"Did you?"
"No. I made the deliveries."
"So what happened to the cocaine?"
"I do not know. But he should have stopped delivery while he was gone, like you do with your newspaper. Risk of loss passes to the buyer upon delivery. That is the law."
"What, you were going to sue him?"
"We do not file lawsuits."
"You kill."
"I don't."
"The Muertos do. Did they know Trey owed you?"
Benito nodded. "I am a distributor. They handle collections."
"Benito, why are you telling me all this?"
He stroked his goatee and sighed. "Because I am afraid that I failed my brother. The last few months, Trey was not the same person I knew. At first, I thought it must be the cocaine, he was using more and more. But now I think not. I think there was more going on."
"What?"
"I do not know. But he seemed very stressed. And afraid. He bought guns."
"Maybe to protect himself from the Muertos."
"Maybe. Maybe someone else. Scott, I do not want your wife to go to prison for a crime she did not commit."
"You think she's innocent?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You are defending her-why do you think she is innocent?" Benito sat back. "A black hooker accused of murdering a senator's son and now your ex-wife accused of murdering a pro golfer-why do you take on such causes? For the money?"
"What money?"
"For the fame?"
"I don't want fame."
"Then why do you do it?"
Scott sighed. "I'm not sure."
"And do you think you will be able to prove that she is innocent? Your wife?"
"She's innocent until proven guilty."
"Scott, I am Latino. I know the reality of the law."
"You spoke to Trey on the phone the night he was killed?"
"Yes."
"Did you talk about his debt?"
"Yes. I was trying to save his life."
"How?"
"To get him to pay what he owed, so the cartel did not send the Muertos after him. He was my friend, Scott. I did not want to see him harmed."
"Did they send in the Muertos? "
"Perhaps. But I do not think so."
"Why not?"
"Because she is still alive. Your wife."
TWENTY-SIX
"God, that jail is awful."
Thirty minutes after Scott had bailed Rebecca out, she was still trembling.
"At least I don't have to wear that ankle bracelet."
"Don't jump bail, Rebecca, or I'll lose the house."
Scott had pledged his house to secure her bond and release from custody.
They had driven from the jail to the beach and were now walking along the seawall. Joggers ran past, kids rolled by on bikes, and parents pushed strollers with young children aboard. The Island street scene was nice, and it was decidedly not Dallas. There were no Neiman Marcus mothers, no Armani dads, no Jacadi Paris girls, and no Hugo Boss boys. There were tank tops and cargo shorts and neon flip-flops, beach bums and surfers, and snow cone and cupcake trailers. Galveston was a Wal-Mart town, the poor man's Riviera. But not for long, if the senator had his way.
"Scott, you know how you said prisons are full of innocent people?"
He nodded.
"If I'm convicted, what happens?"
"I'll appeal, try to get the conviction overturned."
"How long does that take?"
"Two or three years."
"Do I get to live out here? While you appeal?"
"No. You go to prison."
"But what if they realize I'm innocent? What happens then?"
"They release you and say, 'Sorry. Have a nice life.' "
But Scott was not worried about that happening because Rebecca Fenney would not survive two or three years in prison. She might be a survivor in society, but not when taken out of society. She would die in prison.
She pondered that prospect for another block then said, "Ike did that."
They stood at 25th Street in front of the famous Flagship Hotel, a seven-story structure sitting atop a pier extending 1,130 feet into the Gulf-or what was left of the Flagship. Barricades blocked off access to the pier because the concrete entrance ramp was missing; one wrong step and you'd be lying on the beach seventeen feet below. The hotel facade had broken off in numerous places, exposing the interior of the rooms. Drapes flapped in the breeze. The Flagship was a derelict now.
"They're going to demolish it," she said, "make it an amusement pier with a Ferris wheel and a carousel… and a casino if the state legalizes gambling. At least that's the rumor."
"Sin City."
"Sin sells."
"Bring back gambling, prostitution, and drugs to the Island."
"It's already here."
"Rebecca… the toxicology reports came back."
Her shoulders sagged. She sat on a concrete bench and stared blankly out to sea. Scott sat next to her.
"Jesus, Rebecca… cocaine? Why?"
"I only did it a few times."
Two years before, her affair with the assistant golf pro at the club had stunned Scott like a blow to the head-he still had a hard time believing she had had sex with Trey during the day then had come home to her family that night-but the thought of his wife using cocaine seemed inconceivable. Shopping till she dropped, he knew that Re
becca Fenney. But snorting cocaine through a straw? That was not the Rebecca he knew. How could she do it? How could anyone do it? How many people strolling the seawall that fine day did it? If Benito's figures were correct-he said the cartels sent five hundred metric tons of cocaine into the U.S. annually-a lot of these people did it. But none of them were standing trial for murder in thirty-five days.
"You know Benito Estrada?"
"No."
"I do. I just met him, before I bailed you out. He sold cocaine to Trey. A lot."
She nodded. "I was really worried about it. He started about six months ago, at least that's when I found out about it. At first he said it was to celebrate a great round, then to get over a bad round, then after every round. He said he had it under control, but the last few months, it was every day."
"He owed Benito five hundred thousand dollars."
"For cocaine?"
Scott nodded. "Benito called him that night, tried to convince him to pay, said he didn't want Trey to get hurt, by the Muertos."
"Who are they?"
"The cartel's hit men."
"Why didn't Trey pay him? He had the money."
"He thought Benito had cheated him."
"You think they killed Trey? Those Muertos? "
"I don't know. Was he stressed out, before his death?"
"No. He won the Challenge the week before."
"Why'd he buy guns?"
She shrugged. "Crime on the Island. So he started carrying a gun in the car."
"Why didn't you tell me, Rebecca?"
"That he carried a gun?"
"That you used cocaine."
"I didn't want Boo to know."
"It'll come out at trial… and it won't be good when it does."
They stood and walked again, but Scott did not hold her hand this time.
Eighteen miles down the beach, Louis walked over to where Carlos was working on two surfboards laid out on the sand in the shade of the house.
"What's a six-letter word for 'entertain at bedtime'?"
"Hooker."
Louis grunted. "Fits." He filled in the blanks on the crossword puzzle then said, "What are you doing?"
"Cleaning these boards. Found them under the house, pulled them out for us."
"What do you mean, us? "
"Me and you, man-we're gonna learn to surf this summer. Boo wants to learn, but the boss said no."
"Why?"
"Guess he figures she might drown."
"No. Why do you think I want to learn to surf?"
" 'Cause we're at the beach."
"I saw that Jaws movie. I figure there's sharks out in that water."
"None big enough to eat you."
"That Jaws shark ate a boat. Reckon they'd be big enough to take a bite out of me." Louis looked out to sea for a time. "One thing I've learned, Carlos, there's always someone bigger and meaner."
Carlos chuckled. "Benito's men?"
"That could've turned ugly."
"Testosterone will do that."
"Mean will do it, too."
" Los Muertos are mean. Think they killed that white boy?"
"They killed a black boy, down in the projects. Figured he was safe down there, that Mexicans wouldn't come into South Dallas. But they did. Armed like the infantry, a dozen of 'em. They found him, chased him down, shot him to pieces. Like in a movie. You know how much he owed? Ten thousand."
"Trey Rawlins owed them five hundred thousand."
"Not no more he don't."
"The cocaine," Karen said. "Scott, that's bad evidence. How can we put Rebecca on the stand now?"
"We can't."
"Which makes conviction more likely," Bobby said.
"What'll happen to Boo then?" Karen said.
They were on the back deck. Rebecca and Boo were down on the beach.
"Scott, I'm not one to butt into your personal affairs-"
Bobby laughed. "Since when?"
"I'm sorry," Karen said. "Never mind."
"Karen," Scott said, "you've been the girls' mother for the last two years. We wouldn't have made it without you, okay? You've earned the right to butt in. What's on your mind?"
She gestured down at Boo and Rebecca. "They seem to be getting close again."
"She's her mother."
"Biological only. Scott, I've been carrying this baby for almost eight months now. There's no way I'll ever leave this child. How could she?"
"Karen, failure is not an option in Highland Park. It can be a tough place-"
"Life is tough. Scott, defending her is one thing, but don't make excuses for her. She abandoned her child. There's no excuse for that. Would you ever leave Boo or Pajamae?"
"No."
"Okay. She shouldn't have left Boo."
"Agreed."
"They were apart for two years, now they're back together for what, two months when the trial's over. What if she's convicted and they're apart again-for five to life? That would devastate Boo."
"I couldn't just leave her in Dallas. She wouldn't have stood for that."
"No, she wouldn't. But it's going to hurt her badly-if Rebecca's convicted."
Scott stared at his daughter and her mother.
"Then we can't let that happen."
Renee Ramirez presented another "Murder on the Beach" report on the ten o'clock news that night. She opened with footage from the arraignment, Rebecca in her jail jumpsuit pleading "not guilty" and Renee peppering Scott with questions in the corridor outside the courtroom ending with "Do you still love your wife?" and Scott's stunned expression. Then Renee went live from Galveston.
"Judge Shelby Morgan set the trial date for July twentieth and bail at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I interviewed Terri Rawlins after the hearing."
Terri appeared on the screen and said, "Now she can sit in jail where she belongs."
Back to Renee: "But Rebecca Fenney is not in jail tonight. Her ex-husband and lawyer, A. Scott Fenney, bonded her out by pledging his Highland Park house. She is now staying with him and his family in a rented beach house until the trial. I've heard about carrying a torch for an old love, but this guy is taking it a bit far." Renee smiled and shook her head. "Confidential sources at the courthouse have confirmed that the toxicology results showed significant levels of cocaine in Trey Rawlins' blood at the time of his death, and also in Rebecca Fenney's blood that same night."
"Damnit!" Scott pointed at the TV. "Who's leaking this stuff?"
"That detective," Bobby said.
Back on the screen: "Earlier today I interviewed Louise, a prostitute who spent three nights in the same cell with Rebecca Fenney."
A hard-looking female face filled the screen. Louise was not a high-priced hooker. She worked the street corners on the north side of Galveston. She said, "Oh, she bad. I seen it in her eyes. She killed that white boy. She guilty as sin."
TWENTY-SEVEN
"Pick and roll, Mr. Fenney," Pajamae whispered.
They were playing basketball on the court next to the house. Three on three: Pajamae, Boo, and Scott versus Bobby, Carlos, and Louis. Sitting in lawn chairs in the shade of the house were the fans: Rebecca, Karen, Consuela, and Maria. Two brown pelicans perched on the rooftop seemed amused. Pajamae was dribbling in place, and Bobby was guarding her. Scott circled the court then came up from behind and took a position right next to Bobby-the "pick"-blocking his path to Pajamae; she darted past Bobby, and Scott pivoted off his pick-the "roll"-and went hard to the basket looking back for Pajamae's bounce pass and-
"Unnnhh."
— collapsed to the concrete. He had rolled right into Louis with a good head of steam; running into a brick wall would have been a more pleasant experience. He first heard Rebecca's voice-"You okay, Scott?" — and then Karen's laughter and her voice-"I peed in my diaper. Maria, you need a clean diaper, too?"
It was the following Sunday, Father's Day, and this father was now stretched out flat on his back on the warm surface staring up at Louis's broad face and the blu
e sky and white seagulls beyond. Boo's frantic face appeared above him and she cried out, "Oh, my God-is he breathing?"
She dropped to her knees next to him and gently slapped his face.
"A. Scott, speak to me!"
She put her ear to his chest then came up with her arms spread to the heavens.
"He's alive!"
"I'm fine, Boo."
"Oh."
More faces came into view-the amused faces of Bobby and Carlos and finally the frowning face of Pajamae Jones-Fenney. She punched her hips with her fists.
"Damn, Mr. Fenney, can't you run a pick and roll?"
"No. I can't. Not against Louis. And don't cuss."
"Well, you wanna be my daddy, you gonna have to man up on a B-ball court. You ever see homies playin' hoops in the 'hood? You playin' street ball now, mista."
"Pajamae, it's not the NBA finals."
But she had already returned to the game. "Yo, my man." She shot the ball over to Carlos. "Your ball out, bro. We two down." Scott heard her muttering to herself. "Black girl got a white man for a daddy, how she gonna learn basketball good enough to get a college scholarship, tell me that?"
Louis extended a big hand to Scott. He took it, and Louis lifted him to his feet like he was air.
"You okay, Mr. Fenney?"
Scott nodded, but he wasn't sure.
"Boss," Carlos said, "we'll trade Mr. Herrin for Pajamae."
"Thanks a lot, Carlos," Bobby said.
"No offense, Mr. Herrin, but you ain't got no shot."
"I got you out of jail six times."
"That's true. Never mind."
Carlos passed the ball to Bobby, who air-balled a ten-footer, which evoked a "see what I mean" expression from Carlos. Scott grabbed the rebound and passed it over to Pajamae. She faced off Carlos. He spread his legs wide and got down low.
"Come on, girlie, show me what you got?"
Pajamae smiled, made a quick fake right, then passed the ball through Carlos's open legs, picked up the ball behind him, and nailed a banker over Louis.
"That's what I got, homeboy."
" Homeboy? I'm Mexican."
"Pajamae," Scott said, "your mother insisted you use correct English, and you do, except when you're on a basketball court. Then you street talk. What's up with that?"
"Oh. I'm being authentic."