Accused sf-2

by Mark Gimenez

  "Item two: list of websites Trey visited over the last six months. Common theme seems to be porn."

  Scott passed it on to Bobby. Karen leaned toward Bobby to read the list.

  "Did he go onto Facebook?" she said.

  "Every day the last couple of weeks," Bobby said.

  "What's your point?" the D.A. said.

  "Trey could have communicated with someone through their Facebook account, online but outside his email accounts."

  "Like who?"

  Karen tapped on the laptop keyboard then turned the screen toward the D.A. On the screen was a Facebook profile.

  "Like her."

  "Who's Billie Jean Puckett?"

  "Pete Puckett's seventeen-year-old daughter."

  "The golf pro?"

  Scott nodded. "Trey was having an affair with Billie Jean. Pete threatened to kill him if he didn't stay away from her. Happened at the Challenge tournament in California, one week before Trey was killed. There was a witness, another golfer."

  "I take it he didn't? Stay away from her?"

  "No. He didn't."

  The D.A. again gestured at the baggies. "You got Pete's prints?"

  "Not yet. But he seems capable of violence. He threatened me after his round on Friday, with a one-iron."

  "A one-iron?" The D.A. grunted. "Most pros carry the hybrids now, you can hit the ball higher-"

  "The prints on the kitchen counter are from a big man. The construction workers down the street, they told Carlos they saw a big man at Trey's house the day he was killed. And a blonde girl."

  Hank snorted. "They told us they didn't see nothing."

  "You're a cop," Carlos said.

  "True."

  "I've seen Pete on TV," the D.A. said. "He's a big man." He gestured at the Facebook profile. "And Billie Jean's still blonde?"

  "She is," Scott said. "And Pete's a hunter, good with guns and knives. And he was in Trey's house that day."

  "Can you prove it?"

  "Not yet."

  "Let me know when you can."

  "Rex, I think Pete Puckett killed Trey."

  "Thought the caddie killed him?"

  "You just said his prints didn't match."

  "Scott," Karen said, "we should subpoena Facebook, get all of Billie Jean's messages. Maybe she said something to Trey about Pete's threats."

  The D.A. turned his palms up at Scott. "Facebook, Twitter, texting, sexting-you ever feel like you're living in a parallel universe?"

  "All the time," Scott said, "with two eleven-year-old daughters." To Karen: "Where's their headquarters? Facebook's."

  Karen typed. "California. Their only presence in Galveston County is online. No way they comply with a state court subpoena."

  "They might if I sign the subpoena," the D.A. said.

  "You'd do that?"

  "Sure. Like I said, Scott, I think your wife killed Trey. But if she didn't, I want to find out who did." To Karen: "Write the subpoena, Professor."

  "I usually write the subpoenas," the Assistant D.A. said.

  "I know." To Scott: "Even if Pete was in Trey's house, his prints weren't on the knife. Your wife's were. You got that good explanation yet?"

  "Not yet."

  "Let me know when you do."

  The D.A. handed over another document.

  "Item three: phone logs, landline and cell. His landline bills were at the house, so we ran all those numbers. The logs list all calls, the parties, dates, times, and duration of the calls."

  Scott scanned the logs. "Lots of calls to Terri and Rebecca. None to the other women."

  "What about his cell?" Bobby said.

  "We got the log off the phone," the D.A. said.

  "He might've deleted some calls. But every call-even the deleted ones-shows up on the phone bills. We need to subpoena Trey's cell phone records."

  "Okay. Write that one up, too."

  "Trey's last calls that Thursday were to and from Rebecca, Tom Taylor, and a Benito Estrada at six-eighteen P.M.," Scott said. "Who's he?"

  The D.A. leaned back in his chair and cut a glance at Hank.

  "Well, that brings me to item four: the toxicology report." He put on his reading glasses, picked up a document, and read. "Trey Rawlins' blood alcohol level at the time of his death was point-two-six, three times the legal limit. He also had cocaine in his system. Six hundred nanograms per milliliter."

  "Trey used cocaine?"

  The D.A. nodded.

  "How much is that? Six hundred nanograms."

  "A lot."

  "Enough to cause an overdose?"

  "I asked the M.E. that same question. Can't have a murder case if the victim died before he was stabbed."

  "We could still charge her with abuse of a corpse," the Assistant D.A. said.

  The D.A. ignored his assistant. "M.E. said he was alive when he was stabbed because his heart pumped out so much blood."

  "Was cocaine found in the house?"

  "Nope." The D.A. rubbed his face. "Good thing his dad's dead 'cause this would've killed him." He looked up at Scott. "I'm no longer in denial about Trey."

  "I'm sorry, Rex. I know you cared for him."

  The D.A.'s face was grim. He exhaled and said, "Now it's your turn, Scott."

  "My turn for what?"

  "To end your denial. About your wife."

  The room turned quiet, and Scott became aware of his own breathing.

  The D.A.'s eyes dropped to the report. "We took a blood sample from her, too. Her blood alcohol level was point-two-two."

  "She said they'd been drinking at Gaido's."

  "And we can probably suppress that at trial," Karen said. "No PC to draw her blood and-"

  "Incident to her arrest," the Assistant D.A. said.

  "She wasn't arrested for DUI."

  "No. For murder."

  "But the law requires-"

  Scott held up his hand to Karen. The D.A. had not looked up from the report. There was more.

  "What is it, Rex?"

  The D.A. looked up now. "Scott, your wife had cocaine in her system, too. Four hundred nanograms. She was drunk and stoned. Could be why she slept in Trey's blood."

  During a football game at SMU, Scott Fenney, number 22, had run around right end then made a sharp cut back to the middle of the field past the defenders going the other way. Scott had a clear field to the end zone… except the last defender threw a thick forearm out and caught Scott right above his facemask. The force knocked him unconscious. When he came to, he felt dazed and confused, as if his mind couldn't put two words together. And so he felt now. Bobby subbed for him.

  "Could be why she didn't wake up when the killer came into the bedroom and stabbed Trey."

  "Look, Scott," the D.A. said, "I know y'all have a daughter, so I'm not going to release this report. But it'll come out at trial."

  Scott tried to grasp the thought that Rebecca had used cocaine. He couldn't.

  "You're sure? About the cocaine?"

  "You can run your own tests, we took extra blood from her."

  The D.A. slid the report across the desk. Scott did not pick it up.

  "So what's all this got to do with Benito Estrada?"

  "He's a known drug dealer on the Island. Him and Trey, they were cell phone buddies. Means Trey was a regular customer. And a special one."

  "Tell me about him. Benito."

  "Twenty-eight, Harvard-educated, BOI. Runs the Gulf Coast operation for the Guadalajara cartel. Considers himself a businessman, even acts like one-supports the community, gave half a million for Ike relief, something of an icon among his folks. But he runs his operation like a business, so we haven't had the turf wars and gun battles in the streets like the border towns."

  "In Mexico?"

  "In Texas."

  "The Muertos brought the drug war across the river," Hank said.

  "Who are the Muertos? "

  " Los Muertos. The Dead. Enforcers for the cartels. Ex-commandos in the Mexican Army-we trained them to fight the cartel
s, then they hired out to the cartels. All that stuff you've seen on TV about the drug war in Mexico-kidnappings, eight thousand murders last year, headless bodies hanging from overpasses and dumped into the Rio Grande-that's the Muertos ' handiwork. Those guys make the Mafia look like middle-school bullies. And they control the country. We've put Mexico on the verge of collapse as a nation."

  "How?"

  "Drug money. Mexicans send the drugs north, Americans send weapons and twenty billion in cash south to the cartels-every year. Imagine if the Saudis sent twenty billion a year to Islamic extremists in the U.S. and they used that money to kill eight thousand Americans every year-we'd want to bomb Saudi Arabia back into the Stone Age. But we tell the Mexicans to keep the dope south of the river 'cause we know Americans won't stop using. Easier to blame it on the Mexicans than to accept responsibility for all those people getting killed."

  "And these Muertos are in Texas?"

  "They're everywhere now. Five dealers in Atlanta, they owed the cartels two hundred thousand dollars, didn't pay, so they sent the Muertos in. They beheaded the guys, put it on YouTube. You cross the cartels, you're a dead man. Usually after being tortured and sliced up like a side of beef. Los Muertos don't just kill people-they send messages."

  "Where can I find Benito? I need to talk to him."

  "Benito's not going to talk to you."

  "Never know till you try."

  "Except trying might get you a bullet in your head." Hank snorted. "Look, Scott, I don't know how you do things in Dallas, but you don't just drive over to Market Street and talk to Benito Estrada. You either wear a badge or you go in shooting. Preferably both. Scott, Benito's got thugs bigger than buses."

  "I've got Louis."

  TWENTY-FIVE

  "Just like in the book, Mr. Fenney," Louis said. "Ain't no country for old men."

  Benito Estrada maintained offices in a renovated three-story historical structure situated between a yoga studio and the Black Pearl Oyster Bar on Market Street in the trendy part of downtown Galveston. It had the appearance of a real-estate office, except for the two thick-bodied Latinos standing guard out front under a red awning like unhappy doormen. Hank was right: Benito's thugs were big. Their loose Mexican wedding shirts bulged at the waist, obviously concealing handguns. They were armed and dangerous and perfectly within the law in Texas. As long as their guns were concealed, they were legal.

  "Working for the cartel," Carlos said, "you ain't gonna grow old."

  Scott had sent Bobby and Karen back to the beach house. They were soon to be parents, and they were the girls' guardians under A. Scott Fenney's Last Will and Testament. They didn't need to be in the line of fire. Scott had driven past the building then stopped a half block down the street to plot out a strategy. No strategy had occurred to him when Carlos said, "I'll handle this, boss. These are my people."

  Carlos stepped smartly down the sidewalk, clad in black leather from head to foot, past a silver Maserati parked along the curb and over to the thugs. He gave them a hearty smile, stuck his hand out, and said, " Buenos dias, amigos. "

  "Fuck off," the taller thug said.

  Carlos recoiled and withdrew his hand. The smiled dropped from his face, and his shoulders slumped. He looked like a kid who had been dissed on the playground. He beat a retreat back to Scott and Louis, who patted him on the shoulder.

  "Must not know they're your people."

  Carlos exhaled and shook his head as if faced with an imponderable mystery.

  "Folks these days, they just can't be friendly. Why is that?"

  "We live in a conflicted time," Louis said. "Folks struggling to find meaning in their lives. When they don't, their frustrations manifest in hostility toward their fellow man."

  "You really think that's it, with those guys?"

  Louis stared at the thugs. "I think those guys are assholes need to be stuffed down a concrete culvert."

  Louis said it as if he had some experience with that sort of thing. Scott was about to take his chances with the thugs when a familiar unmarked sedan pulled up to the curb next to them. Hank Kowalski got out. His big gun was prominently displayed on his hip.

  "Rex thought maybe I should drop by."

  "Thanks, Hank. But let me take a shot at these guys first. So to speak."

  Scott walked over to the thugs and held his business card out in front of him like a white flag of surrender-but he was relieved to hear the others' footsteps behind him.

  "I'm Scott Fenney. Is Mr. Estrada available?"

  "No, he ain't available," the shorter thug said.

  "Would you mind checking? It's about Trey Rawlins. I'm a lawyer representing Rebecca Fenney."

  The thugs glanced at each other then at Hank; the taller one said, "Wait here." He took Scott's card and went inside. The other thug maintained his position in front of the door. A few minutes later, the taller one returned and gestured at Scott.

  "Benito will see you."

  They all took a step toward the door.

  "Only the lawyer."

  Scott turned to the others. "I'll be okay. Wait here."

  "Mr. Fenney," Louis said, "if you want, I could break both their necks."

  The thugs' eyes got wide. Hank chuckled.

  "No, Louis, just be cool."

  Scott followed the taller thug inside and to the elevators.

  "Hands up."

  Scott put his hands in the air. The thug patted him down then said, "Third floor."

  Scott stepped inside the elevator and punched the button for the third floor. The elevator made a smooth journey up two levels then the doors opened on a young, handsome, meticulously groomed Latino man dressed in a pink Polo shirt that hung like silk, white creased shorts, and huaraches. His black hair was smoothed back, and his goatee was expertly trimmed. His cologne smelled expensive. He offered a bright smile and an open hand to Scott. He was unarmed.

  "Mr. Fenney, I am Benito Estrada. It is an honor to meet you."

  Scott shook Benito's hand. "Why?"

  "The hooker's case, up in Dallas. Took cojones to go on national TV and call a U.S. senator a criminal… just like it took cojones to walk up to mis amigos downstairs and say you want to see Benito Estrada. I like that."

  "Then you'll really like this: Did you kill Trey Rawlins?"

  Benito chuckled. "Perhaps you would like something to drink, Mr. Fenney? Spring water, herbal tea, espresso-I have Starbucks?"

  "No, thanks. And call me Scott."

  "And I am Benito. Please, come in."

  The elevator was at one end of an office that occupied the entire third floor of the building. A large desk stood along one wall and above the desk was a bank of closed-circuit TVs showing the street scene around the building. On one screen were Hank, Carlos, and Louis-mostly Louis.

  "Now that is a bodyguard," Benito said.

  A sitting area with a leather couch and chairs stretched along one wall of windows and a wet bar along the third wall with a flat-screen TV mounted above. It reminded Scott of Nick Madden's office, absent the game tables. And Nick and Benito had a mutual client.

  "Why have you come to me?" Benito asked.

  "Trey's last phone conversation was with you."

  "Ah."

  "Why'd you agree to see me?"

  Benito smiled. "Never know when I might need a good defense lawyer."

  "I don't represent drug dealers. I have kids."

  "I do not sell to kids. I am a businessman, selling the people what they want."

  "They may want it, but they don't need it."

  "No different than the State of Texas selling lottery tickets to poor people."

  "The lottery is legal. Your business isn't."

  "Just because the state made theirs legal. And give it a few years, people are sick of funding the war on drugs. They want to spend those billions on health care. They do not care if someone snorts coke or shoots heroin or if their drug habit kills thousands of Mexicans each year. Eighteen metric tons of heroin cross the border
each year, five hundred tons of cocaine, fifteen thousand tons of marijuana, God knows how much meth- gringos want their drugs and they are going to get them, from someone. Might as well be me. And no, I did not kill Trey."

  "Will you take a polygraph?"

  "They indicted your wife for his murder, not me."

  "Did Trey buy cocaine from you?"

  "Let us sit."

  Benito escorted Scott to the sitting area. He sat on the couch facing the window; Benito sat in a chair facing Scott and crossed his legs. He gestured at the window behind him.

  "Across the street, the Feds have cameras on my front door twenty-four/seven. I feel like a Hollywood movie star, and they are my paparazzi."

  "How long did you know Trey?"

  "We grew up together. He lived in the nice part of town, the south side near the beach. I lived in the housing projects on the north side, near the docks. I now live on the beach, and the projects, they are gone, washed away by Ike. As are the Latinos and the blacks. They all moved to the mainland, no place to live here. The Anglos, like your friend Senator Armstrong, they hope the Latinos and blacks will stay gone from the Island. They think it will be good for business, if the rich tourists do not see us. BOIs have always treated us like IBCs, like we do not belong on the Island, even if we too were born here. But Trey, he did not treat me that way. He treated me like a human being. He came to my apartment, dated my sister, took her to the prom, gave her the corsage of white carnations as if she were the Anglo prom queen. We were like brothers."

  "How'd you get into this business?" Scott said.

  "Went to Harvard, minority scholarship. No jobs on Wall Street, credit crunch and all, so I came back to the Island. But the only jobs for a minority-even with a Harvard degree-are waiting tables for tourists. When this position came open a couple years ago-"

  "How?"

  Benito sighed. "My predecessor, he cooked the books."

  "What happened to him?"

  "I did not ask."

  "But you sold to Trey?"

  "Yes."

  "A lot?"

  "On a regular basis."

  "Did he come here?"

  "No. He knew about the surveillance, they would spot that black Bentley or that BMW bike, know it was him. He was high-profile here on the Island. It would not do his career any good to be seen on TV entering my office, so he required a more discreet arrangement. I made deliveries personally, to his house."