Accused sf-2

by Mark Gimenez

  "She's fast for a human!"

  "She's cutting through the margarita tent!"

  They ran into the margarita tent. They didn't find Billie Jean, but they found Tess McBride flirting with another Joe College. She pointed to the back exit without being asked or breaking eye contact with her new beau. They ran out back and spotted Billie Jean heading into the merchandise tent. They followed and cut through displays offering golf apparel and equipment and- shit! — Scott knocked over a pyramid of golf balls and sent hundreds of balls bouncing off the concrete floor like pin balls. They lost her. They stopped outside the tent and scanned the crowd. Nick jumped up onto an official's golf cart. He pointed like a hunting dog.

  "She's heading to the clubhouse!"

  They arrived at the clubhouse just in time to see Billie Jean duck inside the door to the ladies' locker room.

  "Damn."

  They stood there and caught their breath.

  "This is fun," Nick said.

  "Why's she on tour? Shouldn't she be in school?"

  "Pete's wife died five years ago, breast cancer. Pete brought Billie Jean out here with him, raised her on tour. Instead of home schooled, she's been tour schooled. She's a real spunky kid, always pulling pranks on the network guys." He smiled. "One time she mooned-"

  The smile suddenly left Nick's face. He was now staring past Scott. Scott turned and found himself face to face with a large, angry man holding a long iron over his right shoulder like an ax.

  "You chasing my girl?"

  "Scott," Nick said, "meet Pete Puckett."

  Pete Puckett was a tall, thick-bodied man with a hard face and a cigar clamped between his teeth. He looked as solid as a brick outhouse, and from his expression, he possessed a similar personality. His shirt sported dark sweat stains under both arms; his gray hair was matted below his white cap. His thick mustache was gray. His skin was leathery and sun-reddened. He was a golf pro, but he had the hands of a roughneck. Pete Puckett had very big hands-and his left hand was now clenching Scott's shirt.

  "Oh, Pete," Nick said-he was obviously trying to defuse the situation-"I got you a million, for your club deal."

  Without removing his eyes from Scott, Pete said, "Thought you said not a penny less than two."

  Nick gave him a lame shrug. "It's the economy, Pete."

  Pete addressed Scott. "What do you want with my girl?"

  Scott did not feel physically threatened by Pete Puckett-Pete was bigger, but Scott was younger-although that club would certainly leave a mark. And he wanted Pete pissed-off-a pissed-off witness doesn't think before testifying. So, at the risk of a pro golfer swinging a long iron at him, Scott decided to ramp up Pete's anger.

  "Did you kill Trey because he was having sex with Billie Jean?"

  Pete put his red face close to Scott's; his breath smelled of whiskey and cigars.

  "You leave her out of this."

  "She's in it, and so are you, Pete. You threatened to kill Trey. There's a witness."

  Pete released Scott's shirt.

  "Who are you?"

  "Scott Fenney. I'm Rebecca's lawyer."

  "He's her ex," Nick said.

  "Maybe you killed Trey," Pete said. "For taking your wife."

  "I have an alibi-do you? I didn't have a motive. You did."

  "She's only seventeen, goddamnit! But that don't mean I killed him."

  "Did you?"

  "No. Your wife beat me to it."

  "How do I know you didn't kill Trey?"

  Pete snorted. "That should be obvious."

  "Why?"

  " 'Cause I wouldn't have stabbed the little bastard. I would've beaten him to death with this fucking one-iron." Pete pointed a gnarly finger in Scott's face. "You leave Billie Jean alone or I swear to God I'll take this one-iron to you."

  Pete Puckett pivoted and stormed off. After a long moment, Nick shook his head and chuckled.

  "He is such an old-timer. No one carries a one-iron anymore."

  NINETEEN

  "Mother, did you kill your boyfriend?"

  "No, honey, I didn't."

  "So you won't have to live in that prison?"

  "What prison?"

  "The one we drove past coming down here, in Huntsville."

  "No, I won't have to live there."

  "Good." She hesitated then said, "I had to ask."

  "I know."

  "I mean, sometimes I beat up boys at school."

  "You beat up boys?"

  Boo nodded. "When they bully Pajamae. They're big jerks."

  "It's normal to feel that way about boys at your age."

  "But when I'm older I'll like boys?"

  "Yes. You will."

  "Are they better then?"

  "A little."

  "But you liked boys, right?"

  "Oh, yes, I liked boys."

  Boo's anger at her mother had abated over the last few days. She didn't know what abated meant, but A. Scott said it was natural for her to be really angry at Mother at first and then not so much after spending time with her again. These walks on the beach abated her anger, he had said. All Boo knew was that she didn't like to feel so angry. Especially at her mother.

  "Boo, it's okay to like boys, but don't ever depend on a man."

  "Except A. Scott. I can depend on him, right?"

  "Yes. You can always depend on him."

  From down the street, Scott saw Louis and Pajamae shooting hoops on the basketball court next to the beach house. Boo was a tomboy, but Pajamae was an athlete. She was long and lean and faster than anyone in fifth grade, girls or boys. She played point guard on her 11-12U rec team in Highland Park. The rich little white girls couldn't stay on the court with Pajamae Jones-Fenney. Her dream was to get a college scholarship and then play women's pro basketball-after she got braces.

  She would have teeth that looked like pearls.

  Driving back from Houston, he had made a decision: even though this case would likely cost him the federal judgeship, he would defend Rebecca, he would prove her innocent, and then he would return to Dallas and provide for his girls-even if it meant returning to a corner office on the sixty-second floor, even if it meant representing rich clients who could pay $750 an hour, even if it meant becoming a name partner in Ford Fenney and making a million dollars every year. He would do what he had to do, and he would do it for his girls. His daughters would not be WAGs or groupies or porn stars or seventeen and having affairs with older men. His daughters would go to Wellesley College so they could be strong, educated, independent women who did not have to lie to survive in a man's world. His daughters would have a chance at a good life, even if their father had to give up his chance and be a rich lawyer again.

  A man takes care of his children.

  Scott got out of the red Corvette. He had returned from the tournament and picked up Bobby on the way over to Trey's house. The guard had given them entry to the garage. Bobby pulled up in the Jetta and got out with the tote bag containing the fingerprint evidence Scott had collected that day from Tess McBride, Lacy Parker, Riley Hager, and their husbands. He had met Trey's women, all of whom had loved sex with Trey but hadn't loved him and none of whom had heard Trey mention marriage to Rebecca, and their husbands, all of whom seemed completely clueless. They were still suspects, but Pete Puckett was the prime suspect. He wasn't clueless; he knew about Trey and Billie Jean.

  "Nice wheels, Mr. Fenney," Louis said.

  He and Pajamae had come over to check out the Corvette. Now Boo and Rebecca walked up. She was wearing a confused expression and a green bikini and looking every inch the hottest WAG on tour. He held the keys out to her.

  "The car is yours."

  "How?"

  "Melvyn Burke-Trey's lawyer-he said title's in your name."

  "Trey never told me."

  "That's not all he didn't tell you."

  "Like what?"

  "Let's take a walk."

  They went to the beach and walked to the water's edge and stood in silence. Far down th
e beach the white condo towers shone in the bright sunlight. Closer to them the sound of nail guns firing on full throttle could be heard from a new beach house going up on ten-foot stilts. Ike's seventeen-foot storm surge was in the past, and human beings are adept at putting the past in the past. Except Scott. He was living his past.

  Rebecca finally sighed and said, "Tell me."

  "Tess McBride, Lacy Parker, Riley Hager, Billie Jean Puckett… Trey had affairs with all of them."

  Her expression told Scott that she did not know.

  "No. He was faithful to me."

  "I talked to all of them. They admitted it. Except Billie Jean. She ran."

  She looked away, but Scott saw her tears.

  "That's why she came to the funeral," Rebecca said. "Billie Jean."

  "Pete threatened me with a one-iron today at the tournament."

  "That's Pete."

  "He also threatened to kill Trey if he didn't stay away from Billie Jean. Brett McBride witnessed it. Happened in the locker room at the Challenge, one week before Trey was murdered."

  She faced him.

  "My God-you think Pete killed Trey?"

  "He had a motive. But the grand jury indicted you."

  "I don't think they killed him, boss."

  Carlos wore work clothes and work boots but looked no worse for the wear after a week on the roofing job when he climbed the back stairs to the deck where Scott was sitting. Rebecca had wanted some time alone on the beach. Carlos plopped down in a chair.

  "Why not?"

  "They're illegals, up here for the work. But a couple of 'em, they got gang tatts. Bad dudes. They'd slice you up for smokes. And they saw the rich dude and the red-haired woman coming and going."

  "So why don't you think they did it?"

  " 'Cause after killing him, they would've raped her and then killed her and stolen everything in the place and probably torched the house then made a run for the border. These are not criminal masterminds, boss."

  He held up a big plastic bag with five beer bottles inside.

  "Still, I got their prints."

  "Give those to Bobby. Good work, Carlos. And thanks, I know that wasn't fun."

  Carlos held up several green bills. "Hey, I made twenty-five bucks."

  "An hour?"

  "A day."

  Carlos stood and started to the sliding glass door but turned back.

  "Oh, boss, those workers, they saw another woman down there, at the house."

  "When?"

  "Same day he was killed. A blonde girl. And a man-a big man."

  TWENTY

  Billie Jean was blonde, and Pete was big.

  If Scott could obtain their fingerprints and prove they were in the Rawlins house the day Trey was murdered, he could establish (a) motive-Trey was having sex with Pete's seventeen-year-old daughter, (b) means-the knife was in the kitchen drawer, and (c) opportunity-if those were Pete's prints on the counter, that would confirm his presence in the kitchen that day. He could have taken the butcher knife from the drawer and stabbed Trey Rawlins. With that evidence, the D.A. might dismiss the indictment against Rebecca Fenney and ask the grand jury to indict Pete Puckett. So Scott had returned to the tournament the next afternoon to find Pete and Billie Jean Puckett, but he had found Nick Madden instead.

  "Look, Legend," Nick was saying into his cell phone, "you gotta play one year at UT then you can go pro, okay? 'One and done,' that's the NBA rule. Hell, you don't even have to go to classes. The tutors will get you through the first semester, then once the season starts, you just play basketball. When the season ends in March, you can bail, wait for the draft… and that big check. Until then, hook 'em horns, baby."

  He disconnected and shook his head at Scott.

  "High school player."

  "He already thinks he's a legend?"

  "No, that's his real name. Legend. Kid's six-ten, top basketball prospect in the state, but he doesn't want to play even one year of college ball. Wants to go straight to the pros. He asked me, Mr. Madden, what am I gonna major in? Like he's gonna major in pre-med. I said, pre-NBA. Kid can't balance a checkbook, but he'll be worth fifty million time he's twenty."

  Nick was standing by the putting green drinking a beer. It was Saturday, the third round of the tournament.

  "Where's Pete?" Scott said.

  "Austin. Withdrew, drove home with Billie Jean yesterday."

  "He's running scared."

  "I guess he's the prime suspect now?"

  "He threatened to kill Trey in front of a witness a week before he was murdered. That'd make him the prime suspect."

  "They're flying up to New York on Monday, for the Open next week. Don't know why he's wasting his money, he doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of even making the cut. They'll be in San Antonio the week after that."

  "I could drive up to his house in Austin tomorrow."

  Nick shook his head. "Don't even think about it, Scott."

  "Why not?"

  "Because Pete's a big hunter." He chuckled. "They did one of those 'Getting to Know the Player' segments on a network broadcast last year, with Pete. Now the other guys, they introduce mama and the kids, give the viewing audience a tour of their mansion and trophy room, their ten-car garage filled with sports cars, that sort of thing. Not Pete. He takes the reporter and cameraman deer hunting on his place, blows Bambi's head clean off, then field dresses the fucking deer on national TV. Takes his big ol' knife and guts that animal like he's slicing a Thanksgiving turkey. Got blood all over him, made me want to throw up."

  "Pete's good with a knife, huh?"

  Nick's expression turned thoughtful. "Yeah. Real good. Guns, too. You go on his land without an invite, Scott, he's liable to shoot, shovel, and shut up. Safer to wait till San Antonio, at least as safe as it's ever gonna be with Pete."

  "You finished with that beer?"

  Nick turned the bottle up then said, "I am now."

  Scott held a baggie open. Nick looked from his beer bottle to the baggie to Scott.

  "You think I killed Trey?"

  "No."

  "Why do you want my prints?"

  "So I can cross you off the suspect list."

  Nick dropped the bottle into the baggie.

  "You do that."

  "Have you ever been arrested, indicted or convicted of a felony?"

  "No, Senator, I haven't."

  Senator George Armstrong had greeted Scott with a handshake and a criminal background check. They were having dinner at Gaido's, a Galveston landmark because of the blue crab the size of a small car perched atop the roof as if waiting to snag an unsuspecting diner with its huge claws. A sign read "Caught in Galveston Bay."

  "Good. Last year I nominated a guy to head up the Drug Enforcement Agency. FBI fingerprinted him, ran a background check, turns out he had been arrested six times back in college, for drugs. Pretty goddamn embarrassing. Like Obama's Treasury Secretary-guy runs the IRS but didn't pay thirty-four thousand in taxes."

  Scott followed the maitre d' and the senator-who glad-handed every person of voting age in the place-into the main dining room and over to a table by the window with a nice view of the beach across the seawall. Gaido's was an elegant place featuring wood accents, real tablecloths, waiters in black waistcoats and bowties, and the aroma of fried seafood. Ken Ingram, the senator's aide, had called Scott just as he was leaving the golf tournament and asked him to join the senator for dinner-"And if you want to be a federal judge, you'd better be there." So Scott had braved the big blue crab and entered the restaurant.

  "Boy, we took a big hit with Ike," the senator said. "Seventy-five percent of all homes flooded, three billion in damages here on the Island, twenty-nine billion total… but like we say, 'It's an ill wind that blows no good.' "

  "What was the good of Hurricane Ike?"

  "Destroyed all the public housing on the Island. Our poor folks are gone."

  "You're not going to rebuild the public housing?"

  "If you build it, they wi
ll come… back. If you don't, they won't."

  "Where will they live?"

  "Somewhere else. Wherever they're living now. Austin, maybe. Bunch of goddamned bleeding heart liberals, I'd like to ship every poor person in Texas to Austin, see how much they care then. See, Scott, the public housing crowd, they were holding the Island back-welfare, drugs, crime, test scores dragging down our school system-just like South Dallas is holding Dallas back. Imagine if one day Dallas woke up and South Dallas was gone. Well, that's what Ike did for us, washed 'em all away. All our problems are gone with the wind… and water. Now we can transform the Island into another Hamptons like we always wanted. A nice place for rich white folks."

  "Maybe you could put up a gate on this side of the causeway, make the entire Island a gated community."

  The senator frowned. "You know, that's not a bad idea."

  "I was joking."

  "Oh. Still…"

  The senator was rich and white. His hair was gray and perfect. He was in his late fifties and wore slacks and a short-sleeve island shirt. Scott had seen him numerous times on the Sunday morning political talk shows. Senator George Armstrong was handsome, articulate, and a leading voice of the Republican Party. He ordered a gin-and-tonic, folded his hands on the table, and said, "You know, Scott, when Ken told me you were representing your ex-wife who's charged with murdering the man she ran off with, I said exactly the same thing I said when I first heard that McCain picked Palin for his

  VP."

  "What's that?"

  " ' What the hell was he thinking? ' " The senator chuckled. "Men just don't think straight when it comes to women, do we?"

  "She's innocent."

  "No doubt. But Palin cost McCain the White House. You want your wife to cost you the federal bench? You lose this case in my hometown, Scott, I won't be able to back you even if Sam Buford does think you're the best thing to come along in the law since Clarence Darrow. Called me up himself, Buford did, said I'd be dumber than a stump if I didn't appoint you to his bench when he died."

  The waiter dropped off his drink. The senator drank half.

  "He's my hero," Scott said.

  "You're a hero to a lot of people, too."