by Mark Gimenez
"Would you mind having sex with A. Scott?"
" Boo. "
Mother had a shocked expression.
"What?"
"You know about sex?"
Boo nodded. "Health class."
"I should've been there, to talk with you about it."
"A. Scott tried to, but he was pretty lame. He gave us a book, with drawings."
"So why are you asking?"
"A. Scott needs sex."
"He's not dating anyone?"
"Nunh-unh. Ms. Dawson-she's the fourth-grade teacher-she's got a big crush on him, but he won't ask her out."
"Why not?"
" 'Cause of you."
"Is she pretty?"
"Very."
"Prettier than me?"
"No."
Mother smiled a little.
"Do you want him to date someone?"
"He has us, but he needs someone his own age. And he needs sex. I told him Ms. Dawson would probably have sex with him."
"Why?"
" 'Cause she's got the hots for him."
"No. Why does he need sex?"
"So he doesn't have a heart attack."
" A heart attack? "
"Unh-huh. From the stress."
"Is he under a lot of stress?"
Boo nodded. "He's not making much money, because he represents poor people who can't pay. I think we're broke."
"I didn't know."
"He tries not to let on, but he's worried. And he won't take any of the medicine he's supposed to take, so sex is the only hope for him. So we were thinking-me and Pajamae-that maybe you could have sex with A. Scott again so he doesn't die on us?"
"Well, I guess I could try. For his health."
Donnie Parker won the Houston Classic. He didn't look like a killer.
Pete Puckett did. He was good with guns and better with knives. He had killed and gutted animals. He had had his hands in blood. He had threatened to kill Trey if he didn't stay away from Billie Jean, and Trey didn't. Had Pete carried through on his threat? Did he have his hands in Trey's blood? Did he stab that butcher knife into Trey Rawlins' chest? Scott needed Pete's fingerprints to prove Pete Puckett guilty and Rebecca Fenney innocent, but Pete would be in New York all week for the U.S. Open. He wasn't fleeing the country, so Pete Puckett's prints would have to wait until the tour returned to Texas. And Rebecca Fenney's fate would have to wait another week.
They cooked hamburgers and drank beer on the beach that night. At ten, Scott tucked the girls in bed then went out on the back deck where he found Rebecca standing alone at the far railing. She was still wearing that white bikini. The sea breeze blew her hair and brought her scent to Scott.
"Boo says you're stressed because you're broke."
"She's a thirty-year-old woman trapped in an eleven-year-old body."
"She also said you need sex. She's worried you'll have a heart attack, said you refuse to take your medications."
"My medications?" Scott laughed. "They want me to take every heart drug advertised on TV."
"So you're not having heart problems?"
"No. The girls just worry. Bill Barnes-you remember him? — he died of a heart attack."
"Oh, my God."
"Ever since, the girls have worried I'll have a heart attack, too."
"Is it true?"
"That I need sex?"
"That you're broke?"
"Yep, I'm broke. But I have options."
"Such as?"
"Ford Fenney. Dan Ford offered to change the firm's name, pay me a million a year to come back."
"Are you going to?"
"Not if Option B comes through."
"What's Option B?"
"Judge Fenney."
"You're going to run for judge?"
"Appointed. Federal bench. Sam Buford's dying of cancer, wants me to replace him. But that requires the U.S. senators from Texas to back me."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh."
"And I'm not helping, am I? My case? What if Option B doesn't come through? Do you want to go back to the firm?"
"No. But I will. For the girls. So they don't have to lie to survive."
"But what about your life? Your happiness?"
"Theirs comes first."
"So you'll never have the life you always wanted?"
"I made too many mistakes to have the life I wanted."
"Me. I was your mistake."
"It wasn't your fault, Rebecca."
"I had the affair."
"But I had the career. I didn't give you the attention you needed."
"And I had the Highland Park lifestyle, shopping and society balls, wearing five-thousand-dollar dresses."
"You paid five thousand dollars for a dress?"
"You paid two hundred thousand for the Ferrari."
He smiled. "I did." He shook his head. "That car was so…"
"Sweet?"
"I was going to say arrogant. But it was a sweet car. Sid's driving it now."
" Sid Greenberg? In your Ferrari? Now that's just wrong." She laughed. "It's a nice night, let's take a walk."
They went down the stairs and onto the beach. The sand felt warm and soft on his bare feet. The moonlight off the water provided enough light to walk the beach.
"Desolate out here," Scott said.
"Since Ike. Except for the birders during the spring and fall migrations. They come from all over the country, the birds and the birders. We get ducks, herons, loons, falcons, hawks, sandpipers, yellow-bellied sapsuckers…"
"Didn't know you were into birds."
"They're pretty."
So was she.
"You always wear bikinis?"
She shrugged. "I live on a beach. You don't like it?"
"No, I like it. You like living out here?"
"I did."
"Bobby says Lafitte supposedly buried his treasure out here somewhere. He's been reading the tourist guide in bed. Pregnant wife."
"That's the legend. No one's found it yet." She was quiet then she said, "I thought I had found happiness out here."
They walked down the beach a distance before she spoke again.
"This last week, Scott, it's been like the old times."
"Except for a pending murder trial."
"Except for that. When do I take the polygraph?"
"Karen's setting it up. You're not worried?"
"I have nothing to worry about. I'm innocent."
"Prisons are full of innocent people."
"Okay, now I'm worried."
"Sorry."
She laughed. "I'm not worried because you're my lawyer." She paused then said, "Scott, why are you my lawyer? Why are you doing this? Because you still love me?"
"Because you're still Boo's mother."
"She's lucky."
"That you're her mother?"
"That you're her father." She took his hand. "But you do still love me, don't you?"
The night air had a hint of cool. She put her arm through his and leaned into him as they strolled. He felt her skin against his, and he thought of all the times their bodies had been skin to skin. He missed those times. She abruptly stopped, turned to him, and kissed him. She pressed her body against his, and he felt the old desire for this beautiful woman rise in him again. Like the old times.
When he was at Ford Stevens, the male lawyers had often gathered after-hours and drank and talked about women and marriage, about how the heat of passion they had initially enjoyed had subsided after a year or two of marriage and it was only then that they had gotten to know their wives as people rather than objects of desire. For some of the lawyers, that had not been a good thing; they soon divorced and rediscovered the passion with a younger woman. The others had settled into a marriage in which children replaced passion. They had accepted the tradeoff-little league baseball in place of passionate sex-as an inevitable fact of life. Of course, Dan Ford's take on the matter was more succinct: "Hell, Scott," he had said, "marriage isn't about love; it's about
survival." But then, Dan had always been a romantic bastard.
Scott had listened to the other lawyers complain about their sex lives, and he had felt lucky. Because his wife and his marriage were different. He had it better than those other lawyers. He had Rebecca. From the moment their eyes had first met and their hands had touched and their desire for each other had risen inside them, and for the next eleven years of marriage, sex had been as much a part of their life as breathing. It was as if sex were their reason for breathing. They had had sex anywhere and everywhere, anytime and all the time. Their heat for each other had never subsided… until she had taken up with Trey. Her passion had found another man but his had never found another woman. He had always wanted her, physically and desperately. He still wanted her. And she wanted him again.
"Are you healthy enough for sexual activity?" she said.
Breaking through the heat was Boo's admonition to use a condom.
"Rebecca…"
She released him and skipped down the sand, her arms spread and turning in circles. Then she stopped and faced him. She untied her top and tossed it aside. She pushed the bikini bottom down and kicked it away. Then she ran into the surf.
"Come on-for your health."
He went to her.
He embraced her and lifted her and kissed her, hard this time, and he wanted her as desperately as the first time. And it felt like the first time as the heat consumed them, and they touched each other. He had missed the heat of passion. He had missed being one with a woman. And he would miss it now. He had failed again.
"Sorry, it's been a while."
She smiled. "Don't worry-there'll be more opportunities."
She dove into an oncoming wave then surfaced and brushed her hair back with her fingers. The moonlight captured her face.
"God, I love the water," she said. "Being in it, on it."
They sat in the gentle surf. She pointed out to sea. The lights of the offshore drilling rigs twinkled in the night sky.
"Cancun is seven hundred fifty miles that way."
They sat in silence for a time then she said, "Scott, if I'm not… well, you know… we could try again. I'm not the woman who left you. I know a lot more now. I know you're the best man I'll ever know. And I know who I am now. I'm not the beauty queen or the society belle anymore, and I don't want to be. I know I don't deserve her or you, but I want to be her mother again. I want to be your wife again. If you both can forgive me." She turned to him. "Scott, maybe we can both have the life we always wanted."
"Missy Dupree made chair of the Cattle Barons' ball."
" Missy Dupree? Oh, God! She's so… me two years ago… except she's enhanced." Rebecca smiled. "Remember what I wore to the last ball? Powder blue fringed suede miniskirt and silk halter top, matching cowboy boots, and a pink suede cowboy hat. I spent days putting that outfit together."
"You looked good. How much did it cost?"
She laughed now. "You don't want to know. What'd you do with it?"
"Sold it. We had a yard sale."
"In Highland Park?"
"Yeah, it was quite the event."
"I can only imagine." She shook her head. "Society balls, social climbing, gossiping about other women at lunch…"
"What'd you call it?"
"Scandal souffle. I'm sure they had a field day with me back then
… and now. Rebecca Fenney on trial for murder and defended by her ex-husband-that'll keep them busy all summer." She turned to him. "When is the trial?"
"We'll find out in the morning."
The sea offered the only sounds for a time, until Rebecca spoke.
"Did you miss me?"
"Every day."
Scott stared out to sea. She was right: he did still love her. But should a lawyer love his client? Could he think like a lawyer if he loved her like a man? Was Melvyn Burke right, that a lawyer can only defend his client, not love her, too? That this case would destroy his career and his life? And what secrets was Melvyn Burke hiding behind the attorney-client privilege?
TWENTY-THREE
Scott held Rebecca's hand as they entered the Galveston County Jail for her formal booking at nine on Monday morning. Junior again manned the lobby window, and Sarge stood next to Junior, hands clasped behind him, as if awaiting a dignitary's arrival.
"I guess you didn't dress up for me," Sarge said.
Scott was wearing a $2,000 suit that day.
"I'm surrendering Rebecca Fenney for arrest and booking."
Sarge held up a document. "Rex brought over the arrest warrant himself this morning, said you'd be bringing her in, said I was to-what was it, Junior? — 'extend all courtesies to Mr. Fenney and his client,' whatever the hell that means."
"It means, be nice."
"Hey, I got no dog in this fight, Mr. Fenney. We'll book her, then take her over to the courthouse for the arraignment. Judge'll set bail, we'll bring her back over, you can bond her out right here. And Detective Wilson's a jackass."
"What?"
"Going on TV, saying she's guilty. Cops ain't supposed to do that."
Scott turned to Rebecca. Her face belonged to a frightened child. She hadn't slept the previous night.
"Scott, I can't go back in there. Those women, they'll hurt me."
"No, they won't. It'll be okay, I promise. I'll see you at the courthouse."
He squeezed her hand then tried to release her, but she clung to him.
"Scott, I can't!"
He wiped a tear from her face. "They have to book you."
She abruptly turned and bent over. She couldn't sleep, but she could throw up. Scott pulled out his handkerchief and wiped her mouth. She was crying.
"Junior!" Sarge yelled. "Get out there and clean that mess up!"
When Sarge opened the secure door, Scott led Rebecca over to him. The cop facade dropped from Sarge's face at the sight of her. He sighed.
"I'll book her myself."
Sarge put an arm under hers as if he were escorting Rebecca Fenney into the high school prom instead of the county jail. The secure door swung shut behind them.
The new Galveston County Courts Building's modern architecture seemed out of place on the quaint Victorian-style Island. The curved front facade faced south and featured four stories of glass, and the front entrance metal detectors manned by deputy sheriffs. After reloading his pockets and briefcase, Scott took the elevator to the fourth floor. On the north side of the corridor were the courtrooms; the south side was a floor-to-ceiling glass wall offering a panoramic view of the Island, from the buildings of downtown on the East End to the pyramids of Moody Gardens on the West End, with the Gulf of Mexico providing the dramatic backdrop. Scott found the courtroom at the end of the corridor. The nameplate above the double doors read "Judge Shelby Morgan, 147th District Court." He pushed open the doors and entered.
Walking into an out-of-town courtroom was like walking into an out-of-town football stadium: You knew you were behind in the score before the game even started. You knew you were not contesting the case on an even playing field. You knew your opponent had home-field advantage. A Dallas lawyer didn't contribute to the Galveston judge's campaign, didn't vote for her, and didn't rate her for the judicial rankings-thus a Dallas lawyer had no standing with a Galveston judge. Winning a high-profile criminal case in your own home town was improbable at best; winning that case in someone else's home town was almost impossible.
Almost.
Scott stood just inside the doors and glanced around. This courtroom was not like the vast old federal courtrooms in Dallas; this courtroom was small and new and modern with video monitors and a drop-down screen and overhead projectors. But new or old, small or vast, modern or antiquated, in this courtroom Rebecca Fenney's fate would be decided by twelve jurors sitting in that jury box… by the judge sitting at that bench under the Great Seal of Texas… by the district attorney sitting at that table… and by the defense lawyers sitting at the other table-where Bobby, Karen, and Carlos now sat.
&n
bsp; Scott walked up the short center aisle past seven spectator pews occupied by exactly two people: Terri Rawlins, and her attorney, Melvyn Burke. He hadn't noticed them at first because they were sitting in the back pew tucked around the corner from the entrance doors. Under the ethics rules, a lawyer may not speak to another lawyer's client unless the lawyer is present. Melvyn was present, so Scott stopped.
"Melvyn."
"Scott." To his client: "Terri, this is Scott Fenney, Rebecca's lawyer."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Scott said.
Terri Rawlins gave him a hard look. "You should be. Your wife killed my brother."
"Terri, do you think I'd be representing my ex-wife who left me for Trey if I thought she killed him?"
"Lawyers will do anything for money."
"Not this lawyer. And she has nothing now. She's not paying me."
"Is that why you want her jewelry?"
"No, Terri. Keep the jewelry."
"I don't want it." She reached down and came up with a brown bag. She held it out to Scott. "Take it."
He took it.
"Trey asked Rebecca to marry him that night."
"No! He didn't! She's lying! He wasn't going to marry her."
"Did he tell you that?"
She didn't answer.
"Terri, let Melvyn tell me what he knows about Trey's life. Waive the attorney-client privilege. Please." Scott looked directly at Melvyn when he said, "So an innocent person doesn't go to prison."
"No-and she's guilty."
"What are you hiding, Terri?"
"That's enough, Scott," Melvyn said.
Scott gave Melvyn a long look then continued up the aisle and through the gate in the bar. He placed the bag on the table.
"What's in the bag?" Bobby asked.
"Her jewelry."
A side door opened, and a deputy sheriff escorted Rebecca into the courtroom and over to the defendant's table. She now wore a white jumpsuit that dwarfed her slender body. GALVESTON COUNTY INMATE was printed across the back.
"You okay?"
She nodded, but her eyes took in the courtroom where she would be tried and either acquitted and set free or convicted and sent to prison for the rest of her life. The air of confidence she had exhibited just the day before was gone. The American criminal justice system had finally gotten to Rebecca Fenney. She was scared to death.
