Accused sf-2

by Mark Gimenez

  "To Trey."

  The D.A. downed the drink and poured another.

  "Rex, tell me about Melvyn Burke."

  They had finished the tour and were now sitting on leather seats in the upper salon as if they owned the boat. The D.A. smoked his cigar and sipped his whiskey.

  "Melvyn is the dean of lawyers on the Island. Honorable to a fault."

  "He seems burdened by his past."

  "Aren't we all."

  "I'm representing my burden. What's his?"

  The D.A. puffed on his cigar then pondered a moment. He came to a decision.

  "Scott, I'm gonna tell you something about Melvyn in strict confidence. He's too good a man for this to get out."

  "Sure, Rex."

  "Melvyn is BOI and five years older than me. Went to Rice then UT law. Top of his class, could've hired on with the big Houston firms, made a career representing the Enrons of the world. Instead, he came back to the Island and set up a one-man shop, figured on being our Atticus Finch, if you can believe that."

  "Well…"

  "Anyway, he had a good paying practice, but he took court appointments, for indigents. Judges appointed him because they knew poor folks would have a good lawyer. A great lawyer. Melvyn worked their cases just like his paying clients'."

  The D.A. blew out a cloud of smoke. He watched it hang in the air above his head then dissipate.

  "Melvyn caught a death penalty case, teenage orphan boy, what we called a 'retard' back then, 'mentally challenged' today. Black boy, charged with raping and killing a white girl. Melvyn took a liking to the boy-he didn't have his own kids, something with the missus-got the judge to release the boy into his custody pending trial. Took him home with him, came to love him like a son. Melvyn proved that boy innocent-I wasn't prosecuting then, but I was there-but the jury-all white men- they convicted him anyway, sentenced him to death. Melvyn appealed all the way to the state supreme court, but lost. No DNA testing back then. State executed the boy a year later."

  "A year? That's fast."

  "That was back in the sixties when the State of Texas was executing black men like the Taliban executes loose women." The D.A. paused and puffed. "Few years later, the real killer confessed on his death bed. The boy was innocent."

  "Damn."

  "That case haunts Melvyn to this day. Blames himself."

  "Why? It wasn't his fault."

  "Because that's what good men do. Just like it wasn't your fault your wife left you, but you blame yourself. So you figure you gotta defend her."

  "How'd you know?"

  "Twenty-eight years in this job, you learn about folks… and I've been there. Wife leaving you, that's tough on a man. You wonder what's wrong with you, how you failed her. You blame yourself. You start thinking differently about yourself. You go to the bar luncheon or the grocery store, everyone smiles at you but you know they're thinking you couldn't make her happy in bed, you couldn't satisfy her, you-"

  "Weren't man enough."

  The D.A. nodded. "My first wife left me twenty-five years ago. I always wondered if I had only been a better husband, a better man, a better… something… whatever she needed, maybe she wouldn't have left me. Took me a while to figure out it wasn't about me. It was about her. Just like it wasn't about you, Scott… It was about your wife."

  The D.A. drank his whiskey.

  "She left me for a Houston doctor with a mansion in River Oaks."

  "Did she have an affair with the doctor, before she left you?"

  "Yep."

  "Mine, too. I never knew."

  "We never do."

  "Looking back, the signs were there, I just didn't see them."

  "Life is clear in the rearview mirror."

  "When she left, I felt like I'd been stomped on."

  The D.A. inhaled the cigar and exhaled smoke. "Scott, if you live long enough, life will stomp the ever-living shit out of you. And having a woman you love stop loving you, that qualifies as a stompin'."

  "How'd you get over her?"

  "I didn't."

  "But you remarried?"

  The D.A. nodded. "Five years later. Took that long to stop drinking." He held up his glass. "This ain't drinking. You drink?"

  "Not liquor."

  "Don't start. At least not over a woman. You seeing a gal up in Dallas?"

  "No."

  "Prospects?"

  "Well, there is this fourth-grade teacher…"

  "But you can't take that step?"

  "Not yet."

  He nodded. "You will. One day."

  They sat in silence for a time and pondered women and life. The D.A. finally tamped out his cigar and said, "Scott, even the bad Trey didn't deserve an eight-inch blade stuck in his gut."

  "No, he didn't."

  "Some folks do. Three decades of prosecuting murderers and rapists and gangbangers, I know some people deserve to die. Benito, those Muertos — but the law doesn't allow us to make that decision outside a courtroom. We can't engage in private executions, not even here in Texas. So I'm still going to find justice for Trey. The good Trey and the bad Trey."

  "You should. But his justice isn't Rebecca. It's the mob… or maybe the Muertos… or maybe Pete Puckett. I'm not sure. But I am sure it's not her."

  "Why are her prints on the knife?"

  "I don't know. But there's something else."

  "Not Lee Harvey Oswald?"

  Scott smiled. "The mob wanted Trey to be a long-term investment. So they paid him a cut of their winnings for those two thrown tournaments… in cash. Three million dollars. Hundred-dollar bills. Gabe made the payoff personally-at Trey's house. You can't take that kind of cash to the bank, they'd have to report it to the Feds. Which leaves under the bed or in a tin can buried on the beach."

  "No tin can. Old-timers walk the beach with metal detectors, still searching for Lafitte's treasure."

  "Then under his bed."

  "What are you saying, Scott?"

  "You think the cops might've taken it? When they searched the house that day?"

  The D.A. considered the smoke ring he had exhaled then said, "I want to say no, but in a world where a governor is caught on tape trying to sell a Senate seat to the highest bidder, who knows? I'll have Hank check it out."

  "You trust him?"

  "Hank Kowalski's got no use for money. All he needs to be happy is a fishing rod and bait." The D.A. finished off his whiskey and stood. "Oh, prints on the whiskey bottle match the set on the kitchen counter, but the prints from the tape don't match either of the other sets. And Hank said thanks."

  "For what?"

  "The whiskey."

  "That proves Pete Puckett was in Trey's house the day he was murdered."

  "Figure because Trey was screwing his kid?"

  "That's a good motive."

  "Would be for me. But I thought Pete was playing in Florida that day?"

  "He DQ'd, flew home that afternoon. But not to Austin where he lives. Karen got his flight-he flew from Orlando into Houston Hobby, arrived at four. Which puts him at Trey's house by five."

  "In the kitchen."

  "Where that knife was."

  "That makes him a material witness."

  "Or a killer. He had the motive, the means, and the opportunity."

  "I always liked Pete. Everyone I know likes Pete."

  "His WM squared rating is eighty-eight percent."

  "WM what?"

  Scott shook his head. "The cartel and the mob, they had motives, too. And they're professionals. They wouldn't have left prints behind."

  "They wouldn't have left your wife behind either. Not alive." The D.A. grunted. "Seventeen days till trial, Scott. We could ask the judge for a continuance, give us some time to investigate Pete, the mob, the cartel."

  "You mean, suspects with motives?"

  "Yeah, I mean that."

  "Rex, she's innocent. Dismiss the charges and find the killer."

  "I'd rather find the killer then dismiss the charges. Look, Scott, I still thin
k she did it, but no motive, that bothers me."

  "It should."

  "Guess if I dismiss the charges, I could always indict her again-no statute of limitations on murder. Course, she might make a run for the border."

  "With what? She's broke, too."

  "Good point."

  "She took a polygraph yesterday."

  "You're probably not telling me this because she failed?"

  "Inconclusive."

  "That's not the same as truthful."

  "It raises questions whether she's guilty."

  "But it doesn't answer them. Who did it? The polygraph."

  "Gus Grimes."

  "Gus is good. And conservative. He doesn't jump the gun, say someone's lying when they might not be. From him, inconclusive ain't bad. But-"

  "But what?"

  "As I recall, the house inventory listed prescription drugs, Prozac and beta-blockers."

  Scott nodded. "In Trey's bathroom. So?"

  "So some folks figure they can beat a polygraph by taking beta-blockers and anti-anxiety drugs right before the test."

  "Gus said it only tests anxiety levels."

  "Yep."

  "Rebecca didn't know Trey was taking that stuff."

  "I'm sure."

  Scott pulled out his cell phone and called Gus. He was surf fishing, but he answered.

  "Gus, if Rebecca took a beta-blocker or an anti-anxiety drug before the polygraph, would that have affected the result?"

  "Did she?"

  "I don't know. I'm talking to the D.A. about it."

  "Well, it'd pretty much guarantee an inconclusive result. Artificially reduces the subject's respiration, which is what the machine measures-changes in respiration."

  "Thanks, Gus."

  "You bet. Say hi to Rex."

  Scott hung up and looked at the D.A.

  "Well?"

  "Gus says hi."

  "About the test?"

  "You're right."

  "Inconclusive means the case still comes down to her fingerprints on the murder weapon." The D.A. sat quietly. "Why were her prints on the knife?"

  "I don't know."

  "Tell me why, Scott-get me past that before trial, and I'll drop the charges."

  "I saw Trey's boat today."

  "You went to the yacht club?"

  Scott nodded. "With the D.A. Nice boat."

  "I could live on it. I loved to pilot it."

  "You can drive that big boat?"

  "Sure. We'd take it down the coast to Padre Island, we did that right before Ike hit, so the boat didn't get damaged. I wanted to take it to Cancun."

  Scott picked up a sea shell and flung it into the surf.

  "Pete Puckett was in the house that Thursday. The day Trey was killed."

  "When?"

  "While you were in Houston."

  "He broke in?"

  "No."

  "But Trey was at the club all day, practicing."

  "No, he wasn't. He left the club at noon, came home."

  "Why?"

  "To meet Billie Jean. She was there, too. Pete's prints were on the kitchen counter, right next to the knife drawer. But your prints were on the knife. I need to know why."

  "I cut stuff with those knives all the time."

  The time had come to tell her the whole truth. Scott turned to her and took her by the shoulders.

  "Rebecca-your prints weren't aligned on the knife like you were cutting something, with the blade pointing up. The prints prove that you were holding that knife with the blade pointing down… as if to stab something."

  "Or someone."

  "Do you remember ever using that knife that way?"

  "No. Never."

  "Your prints prove you did. Sometime. For something."

  She shook her head. He released her shoulders.

  "And wouldn't Rosie have washed the knives after you used them?"

  "Sure. Or put them in the dishwasher. She came that day."

  "Did you use that knife that day? Or that night?"

  "I don't think so. I ate lunch in Houston, we had dinner out. Scott, we were drinking a lot… and the cocaine… I don't remember much from that night."

  He looked at her.

  "I'd remember if I killed him."

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Fireworks exploded in the night sky over the Gulf of Mexico.

  Two nights later, they were sitting in folding chairs lined up on the seawall for the Fourth of July celebration. Boo and her mother sat side by side at one end.

  "You're a complicated woman," Boo said.

  Mother smiled. "Is that a compliment?"

  "It means we don't understand you."

  "Boo, a woman's life is a complicated life."

  "That's something else I'll understand when I'm older?"

  "Yes."

  Boo watched the fireworks for a while then said, "Mother, if you don't go to prison, do you want to come back to us?"

  "Do you want me back?"

  "We're at that age-we need a mother."

  "Yes, you do."

  "We… we need a mother."

  Louis and Pajamae sat at the other end. "You decide yet?" he said.

  "Decide what?"

  "If Mr. Fenney's gonna be your daddy."

  "I did something real bad, Louis."

  "What's that?"

  "When I said prayers last night, I asked God to send Miz Fenney to that prison."

  "Why?"

  "So Mr. Fenney doesn't marry her."

  " 'Cause you figure if he does, there won't be no place for you?"

  "Unh-huh."

  "Well, you ain't figuring right, girl. You Mr. Fenney's daughter, so if he marries her again, you're part of a package deal, see? She gotta take it or leave it, the whole package. Ain't no picking and choosing."

  "You think?"

  "I know."

  The night sky exploded in red and white sparkles.

  "That was a nice one."

  "Real nice."

  Karen and Bobby sat in the middle. Bobby was trying out names on her.

  "Sam?

  "Ron?

  "Cole?

  "Clay?"

  Karen groaned.

  "Is it time?" Bobby asked.

  "No. Junior just gave me a big kick to the ribs."

  "Let me feel."

  Bobby placed his palms on her belly.

  Scott was happy for his old friend. He had finally found someone to share his life. Funny. After twenty-five years of Bobby Herrin envying Scott Fenney, Scott now envied Bobby.

  Scott sat between Louis and Carlos, who was bouncing Maria on his lap and pointing at the fireworks. Consuela was knitting a little sweater for the baby. Louis leaned toward Scott.

  "Mr. Fenney, I'm thinking about going back to school, getting my high school diploma, maybe go to college. I like learning things."

  "That's good thinking."

  Louis now pointed past Scott. "We got company."

  Down the seawall, three Latino men were walking toward them: Benito Estrada and his thugs. Scott stood and walked toward the men. Louis and Carlos were on his heels. Benito waved like a kid come to play.

  " Buenas noches, Scott."

  "What brings you out, Benito?"

  Benito waved a hand to the sky. "The fireworks. I never miss the fireworks. The Island, she is beautiful at night."

  "Why'd you bring bodyguards for the fireworks?"

  "Them? Oh, they come with the job, like Obama and the Secret Service." Benito glanced over at the others. "Your daughters?"

  "Yes."

  "Cute kids. I hope to have children one day."

  "Might want to change your line of work first. Be hard to tell your kids not to use drugs if you're selling them."

  "Five more years, Scott, then I am retiring."

  "But will the cartel let you retire?"

  His expression turned serious. "That is the question."

  "You could quit now, leave the Island, start over somewhere, use your business skills in a more
productive-and legal-way."

  "I will never leave. I was born on the Island, and I will die on the Island." His eyes seemed to go away for a moment, then he said, "Scott, may we talk privately?"

  They stepped down the seawall then Benito stopped and said, "Scott, this subpoena, it is a mistake."

  "Why?"

  "Because the cartel is watching this closely. Do not bring them into it. Things could get ugly."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "No. Just friendly advice. Like I told you, I do not do violence. But they do. They kill women, kids, dogs-they do not care. You bring them into this, you endanger your family."

  "I could send them home."

  "You cannot hide from the Muertos. They are here now, in America. And they are here to stay."

  How does a lawyer zealously represent his client pursuant to the rule of law when some people make their own rules?

  "Do you deliver personally to Senator Armstrong's daughter?"

  "You know about her?"

  Scott nodded. "And I know what happened to Trey's cocaine."

  "What?"

  "Those construction workers down the street, they stole it."

  "You are sure?"

  "They told Carlos."

  Benito gazed at the fireworks in the sky above them. "He was my friend, and I did not trust him. I hope I did not get my friend killed."

  The next installment of "Murder on the Beach" aired that night on the late news.

  "This is Renee Ramirez live from Galveston. Rebecca Fenney might have less than three weeks of freedom left-her murder trial starts in fifteen days-but she seemed unconcerned tonight as she enjoyed the fireworks on the seawall."

  The picture cut to the Fenney family on the seawall.

  "She taped us!" Rebecca said.

  Scott, Rebecca, Bobby, and Karen were in the living room watching the TV.

  Back to Renee Ramirez. "And here she enjoyed something else. Or should I say, someone else."

  The picture went to a shadowy night scene on the beach. Two people strolling along the surf. A bare-chested man and a woman in a white bikini. The woman stopped and kissed the man. Then she skipped down the beach and removed her bikini and ran into the water. The man followed her and embraced her and they…

  "Oh, my God," Rebecca said.

  "Uh-oh," Bobby said.

  "That's not you and…?" Karen said. "Oh, boy."

  Renee Ramirez had secretly filmed them that night on the beach three weeks before. It was clearly Rebecca-her red hair glowed in the moonlight-but it was not clearly Scott. The tape ended, and the screen returned to Renee Ramirez.