Accused

by Mark Gimenez

  "Therapeutic Use Exemptions. Means if you get a note from your doctor saying you need a beta-blocker, you can take it—and putt better. How many TUEs you grant so far, Royce?"

  "That's confidential, Nick."

  "Confidential? Shit, Royce, walk through the locker room."

  "So Trey never tested positive?" Scott asked.

  "Nope. But we knew he was cheating. Hell, we even staked out his house down in Galveston, tried to catch him with his pants down … so to speak."

  "You can go to a player's home and make him pee in a cup without a search warrant?"

  Royce nodded. "You gotta pee to play."

  "Why would the players put up with that? It's their tour."

  "No, it's not. It's our tour. We own the tour, so they need us. Without us, they'd be giving golf lessons to old ladies at the country club."

  Nick snorted. "The players need lawyers like you?" To Scott: "Tour's run by a buncha fucking lawyers now. You ever read the Rules of Golf? Like reading the tax code."

  Royce shrugged. "World's run by lawyers. Don't like it, get a law degree."

  "You ever go to Tiger's home? Get him to pee in a cup?"

  "You mean, did I quit my job?" Royce chuckled. "Tiger's not on the tour, Scott, he is the tour. Or he was." He shook his head as if a close friend had died. "He drives his Caddy into a tree and fourteen girls fall out. Porn stars, Ambien sex, nailing the college gal next door—which is creepy even for a pro athlete." Royce sighed. "We may never recover from that fucking fiasco."

  There was a moment of reverent silence for the Tiger Woods fiasco. Then Nick's head came up.

  "Does Ambien really work?"

  "Fourteen gals, it must," Royce said.

  "Do you need a prescription for that?"

  "For fourteen gals? You're gonna need more than a sleeping pill, Nick, trust me."

  Royce turned to Scott.

  "Tiger's been our meal ticket for thirteen years—the tour, the networks, even the other players—prize money's increased two hundred million since he turned pro. He made golf cool. Popular. And profitable. Without him, we're back to a bunch of pudgy-ass white boys nobody wants to watch. We're desperate for another big star, insurance that there'll be a tour if Tiger strays off the course for good. Or we'll all be looking for a job."

  "And you thought Trey might be that guy?"

  "We hoped so. He won his first tournament, just like Tiger. Fans responded to him—it's a star system, and he could've been a big star. But cocaine and gambling, he crossed the line. We've got to protect our public image."

  Nick laughed. "Players don't give a shit what the public thinks, Royce. Twenty million people are out of work, they can't afford health insurance, their homes are being foreclosed, but these guys out here are lunching on lobster in the clubhouse and bitching because Obama's raising their taxes so poor folks can have health care and—"

  Royce was glaring at Nick. "You voted for Obama, didn't you? I knew it! You're a goddamned closet Democrat, aren't you, Nick?"

  "No. I'm not. I didn't. I swear."

  Royce pointed an accusing finger at Nick. "Players find out you voted for Obama, you're fucking through as an agent!"

  "I swear to God, Royce—I've never voted in my life!"

  Royce gave the agent a look of disgust, then turned back to Scott. "You see the NBA playoffs, that Denver player walking off the court giving the Dallas fans the finger? Our golfers don't do that. They know the tour is their golden goose, so they play the pro-ams, they do the charity appearances, they say all the right things in public—we give them media training so they don't say anything stupid—they play the game on and off the course. They keep their noses clean. Trey, he stuffed coke up his nose and pissed away his money in Vegas. We couldn't let one player kill the golden goose."

  "Sounds like a motive."

  "To kill him?" Royce laughed. "Shit, I'd have to get in line out here."

  "He wasn't well liked?"

  "Bit of an understatement. Everyone hated his guts … except the tour women, his dealer, his bookie … and your wife."

  "Ex-wife. What were you hoping for?"

  Royce shrugged. "Maybe a head-on with a semi on that racing bike."

  Scott shook his head. "On TV, you said the tour was like a family."

  "Yeah, like my family. Dysfunctional, full of misfits and jealous siblings."

  "We stopped over in Vegas all the time," Rebecca said. "He gave me some chips, I played the slots. He never said anything about being in debt to the casinos."

  Another confidential attorney-client conference on the beach.

  "He was fifteen million in debt."

  "Fifteen million? That's not possible."

  "It's true. He threw two tournaments to pay the mob back. He was supposed to throw a third but he made a long putt."

  "In Atlanta."

  Scott nodded. "You ever see a lot of cash around the house?"

  "Like a few thousand?"

  "Like three million. Mob money."

  "No. Never. The police searched the whole house—you don't think they took it?"

  Scott watched a brown pelican swoop down and snatch a fish from the sea. He didn't know what to think or whom to believe. Perhaps a polygraph would help.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Retired FBI Special Agent Gus Grimes stood knee-deep in the surf wielding a long fishing pole. He lived in an isolated beach bungalow beyond a line of sand dunes on the next island over, or actually the adjacent peninsula. Scott and Rebecca had taken the car ferry from the East End of the Island across the Ship Channel and driven onto Bolivar Peninsula, where Ike had wiped the earth clean.

  They had parked and knocked on the front door. When no one answered, they walked around back and found Gus surf fishing. He saw them and walked out of the water and across the sand to the house. Gus wore baggy shorts, an "I'd Rather be Fishing" T-shirt, beach shoes, and sunglasses. Reading glasses hung around his neck. Gus's gray hair was ragged and a bit long and stuck out from under a fishing cap. He smelled of the sea and looked more like a beach bum than a former FBI special agent.

  "Sorry. Lost track of time."

  Scott made the introductions then said, "Nice place. No nosy neighbors."

  "Three thousand homes on the peninsula before Ike, only a dozen survived. Not mine. Rebuilt soon as I got my insurance money, so the fish didn't get cocky."

  "No one else is rebuilding?"

  "Oh, yeah. Most didn't have insurance, but the government's spending a couple hundred million to rebuild all the homes. No seawall out here, so we'll all get washed away in the next hurricane, but that's the government, giving away other people's money like Halloween candy."

  Gus led them through the back door and into the bungalow. The decor was that of a fish-and-tackle shop.

  "You know Hank Kowalski?" Scott said.

  "Sure. Hank comes out here on weekends. We surf fish."

  "Do all FBI agents retire to Galveston?"

  "Only the smart ones."

  Karen had briefed Gus on the phone about the case. Scott now pulled out a document and handed it to him. "Confidentiality agreement."

  Gus nodded. "I understand."

  He understood that Scott did not want a bad result released to the press or the D.A.'s office. Gus signed the document without reading it then handed it back to Scott.

  "You work at home?" Scott asked.

  "No need for an office. I do half a dozen polygraphs a month, just a little extra bait money. Just me and the fish now. My wife died three years ago, son lives in New York. Lawyer with a big firm. Hates it, but the money owns him."

  "Beautiful view," Rebecca said.

  She seemed completely calm and relaxed, unlike Scott. Gus noticed.

  "Who's taking the polygraph, you or her?" He slapped Scott on the shoulder. "Lawyers always worry more than their clients." He turned to Rebecca. "Okay, sit down and I'll explain how this works."

  He gestured her to a chair next to a table on which sat the polygraph
machine.

  "Just like a laptop," Gus said. "Those analog polygraphs you see on TV, the little needles flying over scrolling paper, they've been replaced by these digital versions."

  He picked up a blood pressure cuff connected to the machine. He wrapped the cuff around Rebecca's left arm.

  "Like at the doctor's office. Measures your pulse and blood pressure. And these are called pneumographs."

  He wrapped rubber tubes around Rebecca's upper chest and stomach.

  "They measure respiration. And these little gadgets measure how much your fingers sweat. Folks tend to sweat when they lie."

  Gus attached little diodes to two of Rebecca's fingers.

  "So what this machine does, it measures anxiety. We compare your physiological changes—pulse, blood pressure, respiration, sweating—against a baseline to see if you get anxious when answering certain questions. Anxiety is an indicator of deception. And that's all this drill can do—tell us whether a person is anxious. It's not really a lie detector. It can't tell us if you're lying, only if you're anxious. That's why the results aren't allowed as evidence in court. Okay?"

  Rebecca smiled. "Okay."

  Gus put his reading glasses on. "Scott, I've got to ask you to leave us alone for the test. Doesn't work with spectators. It'll take about an hour."

  He walked Scott to the back door.

  "She'll do fine." He chuckled. "Most folks, they're as nervous as a cat in a dog pound. But not her. I don't see any anxiety in her at all."

  Scott whispered to Gus: "Ask her about cocaine use."

  Scott walked down the desolate beach. Gus's house was the only one in sight. It was like being on a deserted island. A hot island. Heat waves shimmered above the sun-baked sand. Scott could feel the heat through the soles of his topsiders. Even the gulls didn't light on the dry sand; they stuck to the wet portion of the beach that the tide cooled with each pass. He walked alone and thought of his life—his past and his future.

  Two years ago, he had had what he considered a perfect life: partnership at Ford Stevens. $750,000 a year. Highland Park mansion. Ferrari. Miss SMU for his wife. Boo.

  Then, that life was suddenly gone.

  Now, two years later, he could have his old life back. Ford Fenney. $1 million a year. The corner office on the sixty-second floor. The dining, athletic, and country club memberships. Life, health, and dental insurance. 401(k) plan. Mansion. Ferrari. Rebecca. Boo. Pajamae.

  But did he want that life back? Could it ever be the same? Would it include Rebecca? Or would Boo visit her mother in the women's prison? The clock was ticking: nineteen days until trial, perhaps five more days until a verdict. Rebecca Fenney might be down to her last twenty-four days of freedom.

  Scott decided to take another run at Melvyn Burke. He knew something. Something Terri Rawlins wanted hidden behind the attorney-client privilege. Scott pulled out his cell phone and dialed. When Melvyn answered, Scott said, "Trey owed five hundred thousand dollars to Benito Estrada. You know who he is?"

  It took a moment for Melvyn to answer. "Yes."

  "And what he sells? And who he works for?"

  "Yes. Why the debt? Trey made that much in a week."

  "Trey accused Benito of cheating him, refused to pay. You know what the consequences of not paying the cartel would be?"

  "Yes. I know."

  "Trey also owed fifteen million to the mob."

  The line was silent for a moment. "Who told you that?"

  "Gabe Petrocelli. You know him, too?"

  "I know of him."

  "He works for the mob."

  "I know."

  "Did you know about Trey's drug and gambling debts?"

  "Does Rex know all this? The cartels, the mob?"

  "He knows about the drug debt. I'm seeing him tomorrow about the mob debt."

  "Maybe he'll dismiss the charges."

  "Melvyn, if you know something, please tell me. Don't let an innocent person go to prison."

  "Attorney-client privilege, Scott."

  Scott ended the call when he saw Gus waving from the bungalow. He walked back up the beach. When he entered the bungalow, Gus said, "Rebecca, why don't you take a walk now, let Scott and me talk?"

  "Okay."

  She kicked off her sandals, and they watched her down to the surf.

  "You get lonely out here, Gus?"

  Gus smiled. "With all these fish?" His smile soon faded. "My work is done, Scott. I'll play out my life here on this sandbar."

  Scott had put off asking as long as he could. "Well?"

  "Inconclusive."

  "What does that mean? Was she lying?"

  "We don't say 'lying,' Scott. We say 'truthful' or 'deceptive' or 'inconclusive.' Inconclusive means 'I don't know'."

  "Why not?"

  "Because her physiological responses weren't significant."

  "So she was telling the truth?"

  "Possibly. From her demeanor, probably. She exhibited no nervousness or anxiety at all, so I'd lean toward truthful."

  "Even about the cocaine?"

  "Yep. Said she used it a few times with Trey, not recently."

  "But possibly she was telling the truth and possibly she was lying?"

  Gus nodded. "Which adds up to inconclusive. Which is why I took early retirement from the Bureau."

  "What do you mean?"

  "After Hanssen—the agent who sold secrets to the Russians—and then nine-eleven, the FBI and CIA and NSA, they all started seeing spies and terrorists behind every government desk. So they instituted wide-scale polygraph testing. Hell, they'd test every person in America if they could. They did test everyone at the Bureau. Anyone failed, they were fired on the spot. I kept telling the directors, that's not the proper use of the polygraph. Just too many false-positives to fire folks for one failed test. They want to say these things are ninety-five percent reliable, but that's just not the deal. None of this stuff—not even DNA—is foolproof, but we want a pill to make us skinny and a test to put the right people in prison. But the Bureau's more worried about bad press than bad guys, so they said shut up and test. I was ruining too many good folks' careers, so I quit."

  "Yeah, but the D.A. won't quit this case on inconclusive."

  Gus shook his head. "Nope."

  Scott headed to the door but stopped. "You didn't ask me."

  "Ask you what?"

  "Why I'm defending my ex-wife?"

  "Oh. Well, working at the FBI you learn pretty quick not to ask too many questions."

  "That's comforting."

  Consuela de la Rosa-Garcia hummed a Mexican lullaby while she rocked little Maria. She was holding her niña under the umbrella on the back deck and watching the girls play on the beach below and Carlos and Louis trying to surf the waves. Hombres locos. But they made her laugh. She heard a car out front, and Señora Fenney soon appeared down below. She walked out to the girls.

  Consuela had never liked Señora Fenney.

  When the Fenneys had bought the mansion on Beverly Drive in Highland Park and she had become their maid, she knew that her life would be difficult under her new mistress. It had been. Then Immigration took Consuela away that terrible day, to Nuevo Laredo. But Señor Fenney had somehow rescued her and obtained her green card and brought her back to Highland Park, and when she returned, Señora Fenney was gone. The last two years without her had been good for Consuela. She was the only maid she knew in Highland Park with health insurance. Maria was not born with a Mexican midwife in East Dallas; she was delivered by a doctor in a hospital in North Dallas. Consuela liked her life now.

  She hoped Señora Fenney would not return with them to Dallas.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  "You really gonna call all these witnesses?" the D.A. said from behind his desk.

  "You gonna find your leak?"

  The prosecution and defense had exchanged witness lists, as the law required. Scott gestured at the empty chair along the wall.

  "Where's Tonto?"

  The D.A. chuckled. "I liked the
Lone Ranger." He pointed a thumb at the window. "I put Ted on intake duty at the jail. Figure processing drunks over the Fourth of July weekend might give him some perspective. He went home to change, can't abide the thought of someone puking on his three-hundred-dollar shoes."

  The courthouse was quiet that Thursday, the day before the long holiday weekend. The D.A. scanned the defense's witness list.

  "You really think someone on this list killed Trey?"

  "Or they know who did."

  "Looks like the leader board at the Open—Pete Puckett, Donnie Parker … "

  The D.A. looked up from the list.

  "Gabe Petrocelli? You're gonna call Gabe? Why?"

  "Because the mob might've killed Trey."

  "I thought the Muertos killed him? Or Pete Puckett? Or the caddie? Look, Scott, just because he bet on football games with Gabe doesn't mean Trey—"

  "He owed the mob fifteen million dollars. Gambling losses at casinos."

  Scott had dealt the D.A. another body blow to his image of Trey Rawlins. It took a moment for the D.A. to gather himself.

  "You know this for a fact?"

  "Gabe said so."

  "You talked to him? In person?"

  "At his bar."

  "No one talks to us, but they spill their guts to you."

  "You guys are cops. I'm a curiosity, a lawyer defending his ex. Benito and Gabe got a kick out of that."

  "They would. But Gabe wouldn't lie about Trey owing money to the mob."

  "Trey threw two tournaments, to pay them back, in California and Miami, earlier this year. He intentionally missed short putts to win."

  "I was watching on TV both times. Couldn't believe he missed those. So if he paid them back, why'd they kill him?"

  "Those two tournaments didn't cover his full debt. He was supposed to lose at Atlanta, too, but he made a long putt to win."

  "I saw that putt. One in a million."

  "Twenty million. Gabe said that's how much the mob lost on that putt."

  The D.A. sat quietly a moment, then stood. "Slow around here today. Feel like taking a ride?"

  They walked out to the back parking lot and climbed into the D.A.'s black four-wheel-drive pickup truck. The D.A. fired up a cigar and the engine then steered out of the lot and onto Ball Street. A vacant lot—the FOR SALE sign said "11 acres"—separated the courthouse from Broadway and on the lot stood two large industrial contraptions that looked like Imperial Walkers in those Star Wars movies the girls liked.