by Mark Gimenez
"Yes—I do want to go there."
"But, Judge—"
"I've made my decision, Mr. Fenney."
She shuffled papers on her desk.
"Motion to suppress the fingerprint evidence is denied. Motion to suppress the toxicology report, denied. Motion to suppress all evidence found at the house due to lack of a search warrant, denied. Motion to limit the crime scene photos shown to the jury, denied."
"Scott," the D.A. said, "I won't go overboard with those. But the jury has a right to see the victim I'm representing and the crime they're sitting in judgment of."
"Any other motions?" the judge said.
"Yes, Your Honor," Karen said. "Motion to exclude the expert testimony of Dr. Holbrooke, the prosecution's psychiatrist. Our client is charged with murder, not manslaughter, which requires that she 'intentionally or knowingly' caused Trey Rawlins' death. If the doctor is going to testify that she didn't know what she was doing because of the cocaine and alcohol, then he's testifying that she had no intent."
"Then you should want him to testify."
"Your Honor," the Assistant D.A. said, "the doctor is not going to testify that she didn't know what she was doing, but that the cocaine may be why she can't remember doing it."
"Your Honor," Scott said, "this is junk science. You can't allow that testimony in."
"I can and I am. The Rules of Evidence say admission of expert testimony is at the sole discretion of the trial judge. You want to appeal my ruling, you've got to prove I abused my discretion. Which means unless I'm screwing the expert, you've got no chance on appeal."
"I don't care if you're screwing the expert, Judge, just that you're screwing my client."
She didn't appreciate that comment.
"Jury selection on Friday, nine A.M. We're done."
"A TV trial," Scott said to the D.A. on their way out of the courtroom, "that's going to be a circus."
"And we're gonna be the clowns." The D.A. chuckled then turned to Karen, "You know, Professor, Rex Herrin has a nice ring to it."
"Rex Herrin? That does sound nice. I like that. Tell you what—I'll name my son Rex if you'll drop Holbrooke from your witness list."
The D.A. smiled. "You sure I can't convince you to move to the Island?"
He then motioned Scott away from the others and over to the wall of windows. He lowered his voice.
"Prints you gave me last week—I got the results back."
"And?"
"Not in the system, but they match the prints on the headboard."
"You're kidding?"
"Nope. Whose are they?"
"I can't tell you, Rex, not yet. But they don't belong to the killer. At least I don't think so."
The D.A. shrugged. "It's your wife on trial."
"Rex, I need a favor from Hank."
"Sure. Tell him what you want."
Scott's cell phone rang. He answered. It was Helen from Judge Buford's office.
"Hi, Helen, what's up?"
"Scott … the judge died."
THIRTY-EIGHT
"Justice is served one person at a time."
The church pews in front of Scott were crowded with hundreds of state and federal judges from across the country. They had shown up en masse just as the police do when one of their own dies in the line of duty. Judge Sam Buford had died on the bench. His body lay in the casket in front of the podium where Scott now stood. Scott knew this day was coming, but he still was not prepared for it. He now struggled to read his notes through his tears.
"Sam Buford was a husband, a father, a grandfather, a brother, a friend, a lawyer, a judge … and my hero. I was fortunate to know him, and I hope you knew him, too. Sam Buford was a man worth knowing.
"Judge Buford taught me the most important lesson a lawyer can learn, the lesson a lawyer must learn to be a good lawyer: justice is not something you read about in law books. It's something you live. It is a lawyer's role in life. It was Sam Buford's life. He served justice one person at a time, every day of his life."
Scott gestured at the casket.
"There lies a great man. Not a rich man or a famous man, but a man who cared. A man who made our lives better. Fairer. The world knew Sam Buford was here."
At the reception, Scott met Judge Buford's two children and five grandchildren. He shook hands with lawyers he hadn't seen in years. And he ran into Dan Ford.
"Jesus, Scotty, what the hell were you thinking? Representing Rebecca for murdering Trey?"
"She's innocent."
"She's broke. You're working for free again." Dan shook his head. "Another lost cause, Scotty?"
Probably.
"Hard to believe," Dan said. "Two years ago, she was living in a Highland Park mansion … two weeks from now, she could be living in the women's prison. Leaving you didn't work out so well for her. She really use cocaine?"
Scott nodded.
"You're lucky she left you."
Dan gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder, as if consoling a son who had lost a ball game.
"Heard Buford put you up as his replacement?"
Scott nodded again.
"One million versus one hundred sixty-nine thousand. Seems like a no-brainer for a lawyer."
"Not this lawyer."
"Think of your girls, Scotty, what's best for them."
"Always."
Dan looked around. "Nice crowd. Last funeral I attended was Mack's, a year ago. I was his executor, took the statutory three percent fee—twenty-four million. Boy, that was a nice windfall for the firm."
"Even prostate cancer has a silver lining, huh, Dan?"
"I worked for Mack for forty years. With Clark dead, his entire estate went to Jean. She was only married to him for eleven years—why should she get it all? Hell, she still took home over seven hundred million. That's not a bad take for eleven years. I hear the trial's going to be televised."
"The judge wants to move up in the world."
"Well, he—"
"She."
"A female judge? Shit, that's bad luck. Well, she'd better be careful. Having everything you say in court broadcast on cable for the entire country to hear, that can come back and bite you in the butt."
"Fortunately, I have a nice butt."
Judge Morgan had walked up behind them. When Dan turned and took her in, his eyes lit up as if she were a billionaire looking for a lawyer.
"Dan," Scott said, "this is Judge Shelby Morgan. Judge, this is Dan Ford, senior partner at Ford Stevens."
"Ford Fenney," Dan said, "if Scott will succumb to my charms … and money."
"I didn't know you were coming up for the funeral, Judge," Scott said.
"Wouldn't miss it. The legal event of the year. You want to share a cab to the airport?"
"I'll find you in half an hour."
The judge walked away to Dan's admiring eye.
"That'd be a nice butt to bite."
But Dan's mind soon returned to his two favorites subjects: law and money.
"Think about it, Scotty—Ford Fenney."
"Dan, all I've thought about the last six weeks has been this murder trial."
"Messy."
"More than you can imagine."
"Ex-wives are like that."
"Bourbon on the rocks," Judge Morgan said to the flight attendant. "A double."
"Bottled water," Scott said.
He leaned back and loosened his tie. They had shared a cab to Dallas Love Field and now sat side by side on the six o'clock flight back to Houston. Most passengers were forgoing the flight attendant's offer of water, coffee, or orange juice in favor of something stronger. Including the judge.
"Funerals depress me," she said.
The flight attendant returned with napkins and a water for Scott and a plastic cup filled with ice and two miniature bottles of bourbon for the judge.
"Thank God."
She twisted the tops off both like an experienced pro and poured the liquor over the ice. She drank half down then inhaled and exhaled
slowly. Her face flushed pink when the alcohol hit her system. It only made her more attractive.
"That was a nice eulogy, Scott. You knew him well?"
"I did."
"And he wanted you to take his place?"
"He did."
She finished off the drink and motioned to the flight attendant for a refill.
"Now politics are standing in your way."
"I have options."
"Ford Fenney. Name partner at one of the richest law firms in Texas—most lawyers would jump on that option."
The flight attendant arrived with another cup of ice and two more miniature bottles of bourbon. The judge fixed her drink.
"You been to the FBI yet?" she said.
"What for?"
"Fingerprints, criminal background check."
"No point. The job's yours."
She held her hands up and spread her fingers. "I've never been fingerprinted. When they fingerprinted your wife, did the ink ruin her nails?"
"Weren't you fingerprinted when you were elected state court judge?"
She shook her head. "State court judges don't have to pass criminal background checks, just get elected. But I'll pass. I've never been arrested, not even in college."
"You'd really move to Dallas to be a federal judge? Dallas is a lot bigger city than Galveston, we've got congestion and crime and—"
"Neiman Marcus. I love that store."
"Then you'll love Dallas."
"And the Cowboys. I tried out to be a Cowboy cheerleader, back in college. I was a cheerleader at UT, all four years."
"You like football?"
"I like football players." She gave him a look; she still had that coed twinkle in her eyes. "Even ex-football players."
"Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader."
"Like your wife."
"Ex-wife."
She shook her head. "I still can't believe you're defending her. You must really love her." She paused, and the twinkle faded from her eyes. "I never had a man love me like that."
"Maybe you never loved a man like that."
"You think she ever loved you like that?"
The last two years, he had asked himself the same question. Often. He now felt the judge studying him. She's the judge—think like a lawyer.
"I think she's innocent."
"I hope for your career's sake she is." She downed her drink. "Anyway, back to me. I didn't make the Cowboys cheerleader squad, so I went to law school. But five years in Dallas will pass fast, then I'll move to Washington and you can have my bench."
"Five years?"
She nodded. "I want to be U.S. attorney general. I'm too young now, so I figure five years on the federal bench, a few high-profile cases, I'll be ready to move up."
"A woman with a plan."
"You know what they call a woman without a plan? … A wife."
She downed the second drink and leaned her head back.
"All I need from a man is sex." She cut her eyes to Scott. "You interested in trying out for the position?"
Scott's face must have betrayed his thoughts. She chuckled.
"Don't be shocked, Scott. Sex is about recreation, not procreation. I'm a woman who knows what she wants and takes it."
Her blue eyes were at half-mast. She was only two years older than Scott but she looked ten years younger. She appeared lean and fit in her business suit with the skirt hiked up mid-thigh. Every pore on her body oozed sensuality. She caught Scott looking at her and winked at him. First Renée, now the judge.
"Aren't there any eligible men on the Island?"
"None I want sweating over me." She smiled. "That was you on Renée's tape, wasn't it?"
"Tell her to stop those 'Murder on the Beach' reports."
"She wants a network job."
"She may get more than she bargained for."
"How so?"
"At the trial."
"Oh. That should be fun, lots of TV exposure."
"Those are bright lights."
"Scott, I've been waiting all my life for my moment in the lights."
She leaned into him and put her hand on his thigh. Her scent had a higher alcohol content than the bourbon she was drinking. Scott breathed her in.
"So, Scott, you considering my offer?"
It was an attractive offer, like Ford Fenney. But both offers had downsides.
"Judge, we're in the middle of a murder trial."
"I promise not to talk about the case or Trey. In fact, I promise not to talk at all … unless you want me to." She winked. "You need some excitement in your life, Scott, I can tell. You need some fun. Man fun." She patted his leg, and he felt the heat rise. "You think about it while I go to the little girl's room."
She moved the four empty bourbon bottles to Scott's tray table, secured her tray to the seat in front, and pushed herself up then stumbled down the aisle holding her glass aloft. Scott couldn't help but look after her; the skirt was snug around her bottom. It was a very nice bottom. Judge Shelby Morgan was an incredibly sexy woman. And no doubt sex with her would be fun. Man fun.
He was like those other lawyers at Ford Stevens now—his only fun was father fun. Watching Pajamae play basketball, going on field trips with her and Boo, having lunch with them once a week at school, playing on the beach this summer with them—that was good fun. Fatherly fun. But sometimes a man needed the other kind of fun, the kind of fun that involved a sexy woman like Shelby Morgan … or Rebecca Fenney … or Tess McBride … or—
Scott sat up straight in his seat.
Judge Morgan lived three houses down from Trey Rawlins. She had just referred to him as "Trey." Not as "Mr. Rawlins." Not as "the victim." But as "Trey." As if she had known him. Personally.
Scott's eyes dropped to the empty bourbon bottles.
THIRTY-NINE
Two days later, only three days before trial, Scott escorted his ex-wife into the courthouse for jury selection. They passed through the metal detectors and the deputies eyeing Rebecca then turned left and walked down the corridor to the Jury Assembly Room.
"Rebecca, unless Benito or Gabe or Pete confesses on the stand, the case is going to turn on your credibility."
"So I'll testify?"
"You may have to. So we need a character witness, someone who can vouch for your honesty. Tess had an affair with Trey, and her husband's on the suspect list, so that rules her out. Who are your other friends?"
"I don't have any. It's hard to be friends with women who are competing for your man." She sighed. "Must be why my friends have always been men."
The Jury Assembly Room was a stately space with wainscoting and wood and walls covered with portraits of old judges. It looked like a large courtroom, except the speaker's podium faced the spectator section instead of the witness stand and the spectator section wasn't filled with pews but with chairs—and the chairs were filled with residents of Galveston County who had been called for jury duty. Which is to say, they were not a happy crew. Scott stopped at the prosecution table and handed a baggie containing the miniature bourbon bottles to the D.A.
"More suspects?"
"Just one."
The D.A. shrugged. "I'll get Hank to run 'em."
Scott stepped over to the defense table where Bobby and Karen were prepping for voir dire.
"Guys, we want baby boomers, upper income, college-educated jurors who won't judge Rebecca guilty just because she left me for Trey."
"Scotty," Bobby said, "this ain't Highland Park. Our jurors are going to be high school educated, working class folks who look at Rebecca as a cheating bitch who left her husband and daughter for a rich golf pro." He glanced at Rebecca. "No offense."
"Bobby, that's not admissible."
"It's already been admitted—in the press. By Renée. Main thing is, everyone in Texas knows the Mexican cartels, so if they're old enough to have seen The Godfather, we'll be okay."
"That's a movie."
"Same as the History Channel for most people."
&n
bsp; The judge entered the courtroom from a side door and sat behind the bench. Scott's eyes met hers; she raised her eyebrows, as if to say, My offer is still on the table … or I will be.
The bailiff stood. "Ladies and gentlemen, please turn off your cell phones and all electronic devices. No phone calls are permitted during jury selection. No texting either."
The lawyers turned their chairs around to face the prospective jurors. Scott sat between the two tables, next to the D.A., who leaned in and said, "What's your strategy when picking a jury?"
"Prayer."
The D.A. chuckled. "Mine is to make sure all the jurors are over thirty."
"Why?"
"Because young people today, they got no sense of morality."
Eight hours later, they had seated a jury of seven men and five women; eight whites, three Latinos, and one black; two had been educated past high school; all were above the age of thirty; one had been reading Wicca & Witchcraft for Dummies. Rebecca seemed shell-shocked, like the girls the day they had learned the mechanics of sex in health class: Is that really how it works? The only greater shock in an American citizen’s life is learning how the criminal justice system really works.
"My God, Scott. My life is in their hands?"
"That's why innocent defendants take plea bargains."
She clutched his arm. "Scott, please don't let them send me to prison."
Rebecca Fenney might have less than a week of freedom left. She knew it.
"I'm innocent."
"Rebecca, I know you're innocent. But I don't know how I'm going to prove it to that jury."
She gestured at the D.A. "I thought he had to prove that I'm guilty?"
"That's the great American myth."
She slumped in her chair. "I'm going to die in prison."
"No, you're not."
The D.A. gestured to Scott. He stood and walked over.
"You figure out why her prints were on the knife?" the D.A. said.
"No."
The D.A. squinted at nothing for a moment then sighed.
"See you Monday."
"What would you be doing if you didn't have this job?" Carlos said.