Accused

by Mark Gimenez

  FIFTY-TWO

  The judge had decided to finish the trial that Saturday—the cable network would be in Chicago on Monday, and she wanted a verdict live on national TV, much like the networks want a winner on Sundays at golf tournaments. So at nine the next morning, the sixth day of trial, Scott stood and said, "State your name, please."

  "Raul Rodriguez."

  The Assistant D.A. stood. "Objection. This witness was not on the list."

  But before the judge could rule, the D.A. said, "State withdraws our objection."

  Scott turned back to the witness. "Mr. Rodriguez, have you ever met me?"

  "No, I have not. But I did see you, yesterday."

  "Where?"

  "At my produce stand on the seawall."

  "And what did I do?"

  "You bought three slices of watermelon."

  "Well, Mr. Rodriguez, my name is Scott Fenney and I'd like to buy another slice of watermelon."

  Mr. Rodriguez smiled. "I will be at my stand when I leave here."

  "I need it now."

  "But I do not have a watermelon."

  "I do."

  The doors opened, and Carlos pushed in a rolling cart on which was riding a large green watermelon. He placed the cart in front of the witness stand.

  "Mr. Rodriguez, would you please step down and cut a slice out of this watermelon for me?"

  "I would need a knife."

  "I've got one right here for you."

  Which knife just happened to be identical to the murder weapon, a fact not lost on the jury. Mr. Rodriguez stepped down from the stand and over to the cart. He took the knife, held it with the blade pointing down, and then stabbed the watermelon. He sliced it in half, then cut a slice out and handed it to Scott.

  "Thank you, Mr. Rodriguez."

  The D.A. had no questions for the witness. Scott recalled Rebecca to the stand and played the video Bobby had made of the kitchen and the refrigerator on their visit to the crime scene. He stopped the video with the image frozen on the watermelon.

  "Ms. Fenney, this watermelon was in your refrigerator at your house on the day that Trey Rawlins was killed, is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "When did you buy that watermelon?"

  "I didn't. Trey did. It was there when I returned from Houston."

  "Did you cut this watermelon?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "When did you cut it?"

  "After we came back from Gaido's."

  "And how did you cut it?"

  "The same way that Mr. Rodriguez did."

  "Why?"

  "Because that's how you cut a big watermelon. Every Texan knows that."

  The jurors did; they were nodding. Bobby nudged Scott and gestured at his laptop. Karen had emailed a "Yes!" Scott stepped over and picked up the murder weapon.

  "You used this knife that same night to cut the watermelon that was in your refrigerator?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "You stabbed that watermelon with this knife?"

  "Yes."

  "Which would explain why your fingerprints are aligned in a stabbing grip rather than a cutting grip?"

  "Yes."

  "Ms. Fenney, you're on trial for murder because you stabbed a watermelon?"

  "Apparently."

  "And what did you do with this knife after you cut the watermelon?"

  "I put it in the sink."

  "Where the killer could have found it?"

  "Yes."

  "No further questions."

  The Assistant D.A. stood. "Ms. Fenney, you used the murder weapon to cut a watermelon that night?"

  "Yes."

  "But you still could have used the same knife to kill Trey Rawlins?"

  "I didn't."

  "Why did you not recall before now that you had cut that watermelon with the murder weapon that night?"

  "Because I was drunk and stoned on cocaine. I really don't remember much from that night."

  The defense rested, and the judge called a thirty-minute recess. Bobby leaned over and said, "We win."

  "Not until the jury says we win."

  "Come on, Scotty, there's no way they come back from that."

  They came back. When court reconvened after the recess, the Assistant D.A. walked over to the defense table with stack of papers in his hands and a smile on his face.

  "You just sent your wife to prison."

  "What are these?"

  "The Facebook subpoena response. Messages between Trey and Billie Jean—and a motive for your wife to murder Trey. Thanks, Scott. We would've never thought to subpoena Billie Jean's Facebook account."

  The D.A. seemed almost regretful. He let his assistant recall Billie Jean Puckett to the stand on rebuttal. She authenticated her Facebook account.

  "And did you communicate with Trey through your Facebook page?"

  "Unh-huh."

  "Why?"

  "He knew Rebecca read his emails, snooped into his stuff."

  "He wanted to keep his plans with you secret from Rebecca?"

  "He was waiting for the right time to tell her."

  "Miss Puckett, would you please read Trey's message dated Wednesday, June third of this year—the day before he was murdered?"

  "Okay." She read: " 'Hi, baby. God, I miss you. Drive down tomorrow. I'll get rid of Rebecca, give her some money, send her shopping in Houston. Call me when you get in, I'll be at the golf course practicing. We'll meet at the house. I can't wait to touch you, be with you all the time. I'm going to tell Rebecca tomorrow night that it's over. I promise.' "

  "Trey Rawlins wrote that message to you?"

  "Yes."

  "Based upon that message, do you think he really asked Rebecca Fenney to marry him the very next night?"

  "No. He was going to marry me."

  "Thank you, Miss Puckett."

  Bobby tapped Scott's arm and pointed at a text from Karen on the laptop: "Shit! Scott, make her look like a love-struck teenager—because she was!" Scott stood to cross-examine Billie Jean Puckett.

  "Miss Puckett, had Trey been promising you that he'd break up with Rebecca?"

  She nodded. "For a few weeks, since we first got together."

  "You had only been with Trey for a few weeks?"

  "Yes."

  "And he said he loved you?"

  "Yes."

  "And promised to leave Rebecca for you?"

  "Yes."

  "But he hadn't?"

  "Not yet."

  "But he was going to?"

  "Yes, he was."

  "You're sure?"

  "He wouldn't lie to me."

  "I see you also posted nude photos of yourself. Why?"

  "Trey asked me to. I'd do anything for him. I loved him."

  "Billie Jean, Trey was a liar, a drug addict, and gambler. He threw golf tournaments. He owed money to his drug dealer and to the mob. He lied to Rebecca. Why wouldn't he lie to you?"

  "Because he loved me."

  "If he loved you, would he have had sex with Rebecca on the beach that same night, after he had sex with you three times that same afternoon?"

  "No."

  "He did."

  "No!"

  "Billie Jean, he used you."

  "He loved me."

  "I'm sure he did."

  They had explained Rebecca's prints on the murder weapon. But just as the Assistant D.A. had explained, the fact that she had used the knife to cut a watermelon that night didn't preclude her also using the same knife to kill Trey. It came down to her credibility. Trey's message and Billie Jean's testimony had hurt Rebecca's case. But Rebecca's own testimony had hurt her case even more: "I traded sex."

  The jurors wouldn't forget that.

  When in doubt, juries convict. Every lawyer knows that, and most defendants learn that. Scott knew it for sure when he looked at the jurors, and they averted their eyes. As if from a train wreck.

  When Scott turned back, he saw Melvyn Burke sitting next to Terri Rawlins in the front row behind the prosecution ta
ble. Melvyn had attended every day of the trial. He had once been where Scott now was, wondering if a jury would acquit or convict an innocent person. He too had been looking in the jurors' eyes, and now his eyes turned to Scott. He had seen what Scott had seen, and he too knew the jury would vote to convict Rebecca Fenney. They regarded each other for a long moment. Then Melvyn took a noticeable breath and stood. Terri grabbed his arm and cried, "No! She killed him!"

  The commotion caught the judge's attention.

  "Mr. Burke, is there a problem?"

  He pulled away from Terri's grasp and walked forward.

  "Your Honor, I need a minute of the court's time. Outside the jury's presence."

  "This is highly unusual, Mr. Burke."

  But Melvyn Burke had practiced law on the Island longer than the judge had been alive. He commanded respect. So the judge excused the jury and motioned Melvyn forward. The prosecution and defense teams followed.

  "What is it, Melvyn?"

  "This."

  Melvyn reached inside his coat and removed a folded-up document. He handed it to the judge. She unfolded the document, looked at it, then looked up at Melvyn.

  "Last Will and Testament of Trey Rawlins?"

  "Yes, Your Honor," Melvyn said.

  The judge glanced at the cameras then stood. "In my chambers."

  They followed the judge through the door to her chambers. She was flipping through the pages of the will.

  "It's not signed."

  "No, ma'am. Trey came into the office a month before he died. He instructed me to draft a will according to these terms. He said he'd sign it when he returned to town from the tour. He had an appointment the Monday after he was killed."

  The judge knew the section to turn to, and she did.

  " 'I, Trey Rawlins, devise and bequeath my entire estate to my wife, Rebecca Rawlins.' "

  She blew out a breath and handed the will to the D.A. The district attorney stared at the document a long moment.

  "Shit."

  "To say the least," the judge said.

  "Rebecca didn't lie," Scott said. "Trey did propose."

  The D.A. said nothing, so the Assistant D.A. jumped in. "Judge, this is an unexecuted, unauthenticated—"

  The judge addressed the D.A. "Rex, Melvyn just authenticated it and will with his testimony. You've contested Rebecca's testimony that Trey proposed to her and put on rebuttal testimony that he told Miss Puppy Love there that he was going to marry her instead. This rebuts your testimony. It's got to come in."

  "Your Honor—"

  "Rex," Scott said, "you said you never wanted to send an innocent person to prison."

  "But—"

  "It's not worth it, Rex," Melvyn said. "You won't enjoy retirement."

  "But, Your Honor—" the Assistant D.A. said.

  "Jesus Christ, Rex," the judge said, "she's on trial for murder because she stabbed a fucking watermelon!"

  Galveston County Criminal District Attorney Rex Truitt surrendered.

  "Your Honor," Melvyn said, "there's something else."

  "Good God, Melvyn, what now?"

  "Trey told me about his drug and gambling debts. Said he had gotten involved with bad people. Said he was afraid. Said he bought guns. I told him to go to the police, but he said they couldn't protect him from those people. And if word got out, they'd kick him off the tour."

  "A loaded gun was found under his pillow," Scott said.

  "If he was so afraid," the Assistant D.A. said, "why the hell did he sleep with the French doors open?"

  The judge turned to Melvyn. "Why didn't you say something before now?"

  "Attorney-client privilege, Your Honor."

  "Your client's dead."

  "The privilege doesn't die with the client, Your Honor. The personal representative may claim the privilege. She did. Miss Rawlins demanded that I keep the will secret."

  "Why are you violating her instructions now?"

  "So an innocent person doesn't go to prison."

  FIFTY-THREE

  An innocent person did not go to prison. Trey Rawlins' unsigned Last Will and Testament was read into the record by his lawyer, Melvyn Burke, who testified that Trey had expressed his intent to marry Rebecca Fenney less than thirty days before his death. Twenty minutes after Scott and the D.A. had made their closing arguments and the judge had instructed the jury on the law of murder, the twelve jurors voted unanimously to acquit Rebecca Fenney of the murder of Trey Rawlins.

  The next morning, the cars were packed for the trip back to Dallas. They all stood outside the beach house; the girls were getting in one last run through the surf.

  "Thank you, Scott," Rebecca said.

  "Take care of yourself." He pulled out $1,000 cash and held it out to her. "I maxed out my last credit card."

  "No, Scott, I can't take that. You need it."

  "I have options."

  "I have jewelry." She nodded past Scott. "And you have company."

  The D.A. pulled up in his pickup wearing a fishing cap and smoking a cigar. He cut the engine and got out. Scott walked over; they shook hands and leaned against the truck.

  "The old man and the sea," Scott said.

  "Yep. Me and Hank, we're heading over to Bolivar, surf fish with Gus. Drink whiskey, smoke cigars, eat red meat. Man stuff. You heading home?"

  "Yep. Father stuff."

  "Good stuff." The D.A. nodded toward the beach. "Those your little gals?"

  "Boo and Pajamae."

  "Cute kids." He puffed on his cigar then gestured at Rebecca. "She going home with you?"

  "No."

  The D.A. nodded. "When you get back to Dallas, call that fourth-grade teacher."

  "I think I will."

  "I enjoyed working the trial with you, Scott. Honest defense lawyer, nice change of pace."

  "Thanks, Rex. I've enjoyed knowing an honest prosecutor."

  The D.A. smiled. "Two honest lawyers on the same case, what are the odds? I should've bought a lottery ticket." He sucked on the cigar then exhaled a ring of smoke. "Just so you know, I think the cartel killed Trey."

  "Why?"

  "Benito Estrada was found dead this morning, in his bed, a knife in his chest. That's the sort of thing the Muertos would do. Send a message."

  "Damn."

  "The day he hired on with the cartel, he signed his own death warrant."

  They stared out to sea for a moment.

  "Good thing you came down and defended her. Your wife. I came damn close to sending an innocent person to prison." He puffed on his cigar. "Scott, I really thought she did it. I wouldn't have prosecuted her if I didn't."

  "I know. You're a good man, Rex."

  "And you'll be a good judge. George—Senator Armstrong—called me this morning. Said Shelby withdrew her name for that federal judgeship."

  Scott nodded. He figured she would.

  "I think I know why," the D.A. said. "Anyway, George said you're it. Said he'd be calling you. Congratulations."

  The D.A. stood straight and stuck a hand out to Scott. They shook again.

  "I think justice was done, Scott." He checked his watch. "Speaking of which, I gotta go get Ted out of jail."

  "Your Assistant D.A.'s in jail?"

  "Yep."

  "What'd he do?"

  "Nothing."

  "Why's he in jail?"

  "I had him arrested last night."

  "Why?"

  "Well, I saw this movie a long time ago, about a doctor who's a real jerk, doesn't treat his patients like human beings, until he becomes a patient himself, experiences the other side of the doctor-patient relationship. I figured it might help Ted to experience law enforcement from the other side—getting pulled over and handcuffed on the side of the road, hauled down to jail, strip searched, hosed down, sprayed for lice, spend a night in the drunk tank with a bunch of stinkin' bums puking their guts out … Might give him a little perspective—not everyone who gets arrested is guilty." He chuckled. "And it'll teach him not to leak evidence to th
e press."

  "Ted was the leak?"

  "Yep. Pillow talk."

  "Ted and Renée?"

  "Makes you kinda nauseous, don't it? That lucky little bastard."

  Scott laughed.

  "That's how she knew Rebecca was out here, taped you two on the beach. Sorry."

  The D.A. got back into his truck and blew smoke out the open window.

  "Oh, almost forgot. Hank checked out the cops and everyone else who worked the crime scene. They didn't take the three million—the mob money."

  "He's sure?"

  The D.A. nodded. "He threatened them with Gus—a polygraph. Which got Wilson—the detective—to fess up to taking a couple of Trey's DVDs. Lacy Parker movies. I don't figure he'll be writing a book now."

  Scott waved at the endless sand. "Maybe Trey buried that money out there somewhere."

  "Maybe. Maybe some old-timer with a metal detector will find it one day. Buried treasure. Not Lafitte's, but three million, that'd spend pretty good."

  He nodded at Scott then drove off. Before the black pickup was out of sight, Scott's cell phone rang. It was Senator Armstrong.

  "Scott, you still want that judgeship?"

  The politics and fingerprints had aligned for A. Scott Fenney, but did he want a federal judgeship that way? To be appointed by a politician like Senator George Armstrong? The choice was clear: Judge Fenney or Ford Fenney. He made his choice for his girls … for the dissed of Dallas … for Sam Buford … and for himself.

  "Yes, sir, I do."

  Politics was putting him on the federal bench, but Judge A. Scott Fenney would be about serving justice—one person at a time.

  "Good. Because you're it. Shelby dropped out. When you get back to Dallas, call the FBI office to get fingerprinted and your criminal background check done. They'll coordinate with my office. Your confirmation hearing will be in a few months in Washington, but it's just a formality for district judges. What I say goes. Welcome to the bench, Judge A. Scott Fenney."