by Mark Gimenez
"Think about it, Scotty-Ford Fenney."
"Dan, all I've thought about the last six weeks has been this murder trial."
"Messy."
"More than you can imagine."
"Ex-wives are like that."
"Bourbon on the rocks," Judge Morgan said to the flight attendant. "A double."
"Bottled water," Scott said.
He leaned back and loosened his tie. They had shared a cab to Dallas Love Field and now sat side by side on the six o'clock flight back to Houston. Most passengers were forgoing the flight attendant's offer of water, coffee, or orange juice in favor of something stronger. Including the judge.
"Funerals depress me," she said.
The flight attendant returned with napkins and a water for Scott and a plastic cup filled with ice and two miniature bottles of bourbon for the judge.
"Thank God."
She twisted the tops off both like an experienced pro and poured the liquor over the ice. She drank half down then inhaled and exhaled slowly. Her face flushed pink when the alcohol hit her system. It only made her more attractive.
"That was a nice eulogy, Scott. You knew him well?"
"I did."
"And he wanted you to take his place?"
"He did."
She finished off the drink and motioned to the flight attendant for a refill.
"Now politics are standing in your way."
"I have options."
"Ford Fenney. Name partner at one of the richest law firms in Texas-most lawyers would jump on that option."
The flight attendant arrived with another cup of ice and two more miniature bottles of bourbon. The judge fixed her drink.
"You been to the FBI yet?" she said.
"What for?"
"Fingerprints, criminal background check."
"No point. The job's yours."
She held her hands up and spread her fingers. "I've never been fingerprinted. When they fingerprinted your wife, did the ink ruin her nails?"
"Weren't you fingerprinted when you were elected state court judge?"
She shook her head. "State court judges don't have to pass criminal background checks, just get elected. But I'll pass. I've never been arrested, not even in college."
"You'd really move to Dallas to be a federal judge? Dallas is a lot bigger city than Galveston, we've got congestion and crime and-"
"Neiman Marcus. I love that store."
"Then you'll love Dallas."
"And the Cowboys. I tried out to be a Cowboy cheerleader, back in college. I was a cheerleader at UT, all four years."
"You like football?"
"I like football players." She gave him a look; she still had that coed twinkle in her eyes. "Even ex-football players."
"Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader."
"Like your wife."
"Ex-wife."
She shook her head. "I still can't believe you're defending her. You must really love her." She paused, and the twinkle faded from her eyes. "I never had a man love me like that."
"Maybe you never loved a man like that."
"You think she ever loved you like that?"
The last two years, he had asked himself the same question. Often. He now felt the judge studying him. She's the judge-think like a lawyer.
"I think she's innocent."
"I hope for your career's sake she is." She downed her drink. "Anyway, back to me. I didn't make the Cowboys cheerleader squad, so I went to law school. But five years in Dallas will pass fast, then I'll move to Washington and you can have my bench."
"Five years?"
She nodded. "I want to be U.S. attorney general. I'm too young now, so I figure five years on the federal bench, a few high-profile cases, I'll be ready to move up."
"A woman with a plan."
"You know what they call a woman without a plan?… A wife."
She downed the second drink and leaned her head back.
"All I need from a man is sex." She cut her eyes to Scott. "You interested in trying out for the position?"
Scott's face must have betrayed his thoughts. She chuckled.
"Don't be shocked, Scott. Sex is about recreation, not procreation. I'm a woman who knows what she wants and takes it."
Her blue eyes were at half-mast. She was only two years older than Scott but she looked ten years younger. She appeared lean and fit in her business suit with the skirt hiked up mid-thigh. Every pore on her body oozed sensuality. She caught Scott looking at her and winked at him. First Renee, now the judge.
"Aren't there any eligible men on the Island?"
"None I want sweating over me." She smiled. "That was you on Renee's tape, wasn't it?"
"Tell her to stop those 'Murder on the Beach' reports."
"She wants a network job."
"She may get more than she bargained for."
"How so?"
"At the trial."
"Oh. That should be fun, lots of TV exposure."
"Those are bright lights."
"Scott, I've been waiting all my life for my moment in the lights."
She leaned into him and put her hand on his thigh. Her scent had a higher alcohol content than the bourbon she was drinking. Scott breathed her in.
"So, Scott, you considering my offer?"
It was an attractive offer, like Ford Fenney. But both offers had downsides.
"Judge, we're in the middle of a murder trial."
"I promise not to talk about the case or Trey. In fact, I promise not to talk at all… unless you want me to." She winked. "You need some excitement in your life, Scott, I can tell. You need some fun. Man fun." She patted his leg, and he felt the heat rise. "You think about it while I go to the little girl's room."
She moved the four empty bourbon bottles to Scott's tray table, secured her tray to the seat in front, and pushed herself up then stumbled down the aisle holding her glass aloft. Scott couldn't help but look after her; the skirt was snug around her bottom. It was a very nice bottom. Judge Shelby Morgan was an incredibly sexy woman. And no doubt sex with her would be fun. Man fun.
He was like those other lawyers at Ford Stevens now-his only fun was father fun. Watching Pajamae play basketball, going on field trips with her and Boo, having lunch with them once a week at school, playing on the beach this summer with them-that was good fun. Fatherly fun. But sometimes a man needed the other kind of fun, the kind of fun that involved a sexy woman like Shelby Morgan… or Rebecca Fenney… or Tess McBride… or-
Scott sat up straight in his seat.
Judge Morgan lived three houses down from Trey Rawlins. She had just referred to him as "Trey." Not as "Mr. Rawlins." Not as "the victim." But as "Trey." As if she had known him. Personally.
Scott's eyes dropped to the empty bourbon bottles.
THIRTY-NINE
Two days later, only three days before trial, Scott escorted his ex-wife into the courthouse for jury selection. They passed through the metal detectors and the deputies eyeing Rebecca then turned left and walked down the corridor to the Jury Assembly Room.
"Rebecca, unless Benito or Gabe or Pete confesses on the stand, the case is going to turn on your credibility."
"So I'll testify?"
"You may have to. So we need a character witness, someone who can vouch for your honesty. Tess had an affair with Trey, and her husband's on the suspect list, so that rules her out. Who are your other friends?"
"I don't have any. It's hard to be friends with women who are competing for your man." She sighed. "Must be why my friends have always been men."
The Jury Assembly Room was a stately space with wainscoting and wood and walls covered with portraits of old judges. It looked like a large courtroom, except the speaker's podium faced the spectator section instead of the witness stand and the spectator section wasn't filled with pews but with chairs-and the chairs were filled with residents of Galveston County who had been called for jury duty. Which is to say, they were not a happy crew. Scott stopped at the prosecut
ion table and handed a baggie containing the miniature bourbon bottles to the D.A.
"More suspects?"
"Just one."
The D.A. shrugged. "I'll get Hank to run 'em."
Scott stepped over to the defense table where Bobby and Karen were prepping for voir dire.
"Guys, we want baby boomers, upper income, college-educated jurors who won't judge Rebecca guilty just because she left me for Trey."
"Scotty," Bobby said, "this ain't Highland Park. Our jurors are going to be high school educated, working class folks who look at Rebecca as a cheating bitch who left her husband and daughter for a rich golf pro." He glanced at Rebecca. "No offense."
"Bobby, that's not admissible."
"It's already been admitted-in the press. By Renee. Main thing is, everyone in Texas knows the Mexican cartels, so if they're old enough to have seen The Godfather, we'll be okay."
"That's a movie."
"Same as the History Channel for most people."
The judge entered the courtroom from a side door and sat behind the bench. Scott's eyes met hers; she raised her eyebrows, as if to say, My offer is still on the table… or I will be.
The bailiff stood. "Ladies and gentlemen, please turn off your cell phones and all electronic devices. No phone calls are permitted during jury selection. No texting either."
The lawyers turned their chairs around to face the prospective jurors. Scott sat between the two tables, next to the D.A., who leaned in and said, "What's your strategy when picking a jury?"
"Prayer."
The D.A. chuckled. "Mine is to make sure all the jurors are over thirty."
"Why?"
"Because young people today, they got no sense of morality."
Eight hours later, they had seated a jury of seven men and five women; eight whites, three Latinos, and one black; two had been educated past high school; all were above the age of thirty; one had been reading Wicca amp; Witchcraft for Dummies. Rebecca seemed shell-shocked, like the girls the day they had learned the mechanics of sex in health class: Is that really how it works? The only greater shock in an American citizen’s life is learning how the criminal justice system really works.
"My God, Scott. My life is in their hands?"
"That's why innocent defendants take plea bargains."
She clutched his arm. "Scott, please don't let them send me to prison."
Rebecca Fenney might have less than a week of freedom left. She knew it.
"I'm innocent."
"Rebecca, I know you're innocent. But I don't know how I'm going to prove it to that jury."
She gestured at the D.A. "I thought he had to prove that I'm guilty?"
"That's the great American myth."
She slumped in her chair. "I'm going to die in prison."
"No, you're not."
The D.A. gestured to Scott. He stood and walked over.
"You figure out why her prints were on the knife?" the D.A. said.
"No."
The D.A. squinted at nothing for a moment then sighed.
"See you Monday."
"What would you be doing if you didn't have this job?" Carlos said.
They were again sitting on their surfboards, even farther offshore this time, their legs dangling in the murky warm water that was the Gulf of Mexico, gently swaying with each swell. It was nice.
"Time. I'd be doing time. Career path for an uneducated black man in the projects is prison."
"You think Miss Fenney's going to prison?"
"Hard to say. But I'm going to college."
"Is that why you read all those books?"
"I read books so I'm not ignorant all my life."
"You're smart."
"I'm street smart, but not book smart."
"You know how to survive in the projects, you could write a book about that. Shit, Louis, they put you on one of those Survivor-Jungle shows, you'd kick their asses from here to Sunday. Projects make the jungle look like Disney World."
"I'd like to go there one day."
"The jungle?"
"Disney World. After college, maybe."
"I thought about going to college once, I was watching a football game-all those hot college girls bouncing for the cameras. Hey, Louis, we could go to college together, live in one of those coed dorms. We could be roommates."
"One summer is enough."
Carlos turned his head real quick like. "Is that a shark?"
Louis jumped and Carlos laughed.
"Just kidding, big man. I read in the paper that you got a lot better chance of drowning than getting eaten by a shark."
"That supposed to make me feel better?"
"You think there are sharks out there?" Bobby said.
He shook his head then turned back to Scott and Karen. They were working trial strategy on the back deck that afternoon.
"Scotty, the D.A.'s got no motive, no witnesses, no nothing-except her prints on the murder weapon. We explain that, they lose."
"He said if we can explain why her prints are on the knife before Monday, he'll drop the charges."
"You ask her?"
Scott nodded. "She doesn't remember holding the knife that way."
"You don't stab a steak."
"The alcohol and cocaine, she can't remember much about that night."
"Not good. Well, here's how I figure this is gonna play out. Rex will put on a very perfunctory case. The 911 operator, the cops first on the scene, the detectives, criminologists, M.E., the lab tech to testify to her prints, and his expert. That's it. State rests. Then he'll wait to cross-examine Rebecca-see if we put her on the stand."
"Then we call everyone who had a motive to kill Trey Rawlins and see if anyone breaks on the stand. Not the best trial strategy."
"Only strategy we've got. And it worked before."
"So it did."
"Subpoenas were served," Karen said. "I got all fourteen returns of service."
She tapped on her laptop then turned it so Bobby and Scott could see the screen, too. She had drawn a flow chart of the suspects and their motives and alibis.
"Looks like the organizational chart of a Fortune 500 company," Scott said.
"More than a few folks wanted Trey Rawlins dead," Bobby said.
"Let's go back through everyone with a motive," Scott said. "Make sure we didn't miss anything."
"First couple, Tess and Brett McBride," Karen said. "Neither of their prints matches the unidentified sets at the crime scene, and they were confirmed at the Florida tournament at the time Trey was killed. Brett played Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, made the cut, and played on the weekend. He didn't leave Florida until Sunday night."
"And they're still married, so he likely didn't know about Tess and Trey. Next."
"Lacy Parker, our favorite porn star, and Donnie Parker, a moron."
"Maybe he loves her for her mind," Bobby said.
"Only if her mind's located between her legs." Karen returned to her laptop. "Their prints don't match, and Donnie was confirmed in San Diego that Thursday, saw a doctor for his rotator cuff."
"Also still married. Next."
"Riley and Vic Hager. Prints don't match. Missed the cut in Florida, flew home to Wisconsin Friday. Confirmed. Oh, Riley hates Wisconsin."
"Still married. Next."
"Brad Dickey, Golf-a-zon-dot-com. Trey's sponsor. Great motive-if Trey died, they could terminate his endorsement contract and save ten million dollars. And they did just that. But he was at the Florida tournament all week, confirmed."
"They could've hired a contract killer," Bobby said.
"A corporate marketing guy hires an assassin to off their marquee athlete?" Scott said. "Where would he find one? In the yellow pages? Brad's just a guy trying to sell some golf balls. Next."
"Royce Ballard, tour VP. They didn't want Trey to hurt the tour's image, true, but killing him?"
"Royce is just a lawyer. Next."
"The construction workers."
"No way a bunch
of stoned roofers get in and out clean," Bobby said. "No prints, no DNA, nothing taken."
Scott nodded. "They just wanted his cocaine. Next."
"Now the interesting suspects. First, Clyde 'Goose' Dalton, the caddie. A live one, no doubt about it. Trey fired and humiliated him then refused to pay him the hundred thousand he was owed. Good motive. And he had the opportunity. He flew from Florida to Austin that Thursday afternoon, arrived at five. Four hours to drive here, he could've been here at the time of death."
"But his prints don't match those at the house, and Goose doesn't strike me as the type to sneak into Trey's house at night and stab him while he slept. He would've woke him up first, so Trey'd know it was him. Next."
"Okay, the big three: the cartel, the mob, and the father. First up, Benito Estrada. Trey owed him five hundred thousand. He knew the layout of Trey's house because he had been there before. And he had access to professional killers, the Muertos. French doors were open, no problem for ex-commandos to enter the house, go to the kitchen, grab the knife, and stab Trey. And they wouldn't have left prints."
"But they wouldn't have left her alive either," Bobby said. "They don't bother framing people for their murders."
"No, they don't," Scott said. "I don't think Benito killed Trey or ordered it, but the cartel might have. They're definitely prime suspects."
"But other than grilling Benito, what can we do?"
Scott shook his head. "Nothing."
"Next up, the mob. Big-time motive, millions in gambling debts then he wins that tournament he was supposed to lose, cost them twenty million. Doesn't seem like they'd let that slide. And they're professionals, too."
"They wanted to kill him, no question about it. The question is, did someone beat them to it, like Gabe said?"
"Someone like Pete Puckett?"
"Exactly like Pete Puckett."
"Motive, means, and opportunity. Confirmed presence at the crime scene that day. Billie Jean, sex… all the ingredients for murder are there."
"And he's a hunter, means he's killed living things and he knows how to handle a knife. You can't be faint of heart to field dress a full-grown deer. It's bloody. Karen, read your notes, what those construction workers saw that day."
She tapped on her laptop then read: "The blonde girl arrived about one in a black Mustang, went inside the house. About five, a yellow cab arrived, and the big man got out, went inside. That's probably when Pete put his prints on the kitchen counter, but that's not when Trey was murdered. The construction workers saw the big man and the blonde girl leave ten or fifteen minutes later. So Pete and Billie Jean left the house seven or eight hours before time of death. They would've been back in Austin when Trey was murdered."
