Accused sf-2

by Mark Gimenez

  "What kind of man does that? What kind of man gives cocaine to a seventeen-year-old kid? Every time they were together, now she wants it all the time. What would you do if a grown man gave your girls cocaine?"

  Kill him.

  "My Billie Jean, she's a good kid, I'm trying to raise her right, but since her mama died, I don't know how to help her understand things… a girl needs a mama when she gets that age, a woman to talk to her about boys and what they'll say to get what they want… all I know is golfing and hunting… I've been lost since her mama died… We both have."

  He put his face in his hands and sobbed. The judge called a fifteen-minute recess.

  Scott-and Louis-went to the restroom. Scott opened the door and came face to face with Pete Puckett. He had obviously just washed his face.

  "I'm sorry, Pete."

  "Fuck you. You're a goddamn lawyer, don't give a shit about no one or nothing except getting your wife off."

  He stormed down the corridor. Scott looked after him and sighed.

  "Ex-wife."

  When the trial resumed, Pete Puckett had gathered himself.

  "Mr. Puckett, you went to Trey's house that day to kill him?"

  "Yes."

  "But you didn't?"

  "No."

  "You dragged Billie Jean out of the house, didn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "We know Trey was not killed until after midnight. We know you went to the Galvez with your daughter and checked into a suite. We know you were enraged and in town. We know you left the hotel after midnight. Did you return to Trey's house?"

  "Yes."

  "To kill him?"

  "Yes."

  "You put on gloves, didn't you?"

  "No."

  "You went up the back stairs again, didn't you?"

  "No."

  "You entered the bedroom and found Trey and Rebecca sleeping, passed out."

  "No."

  "You went back into the kitchen and you got a knife this time, a butcher knife."

  "No."

  "You went back into the bedroom and over to the bed."

  "No."

  "You stood over Trey."

  "No."

  "You raised the knife over Trey."

  "No."

  "And you stabbed the knife into Trey Rawlins' chest."

  "No!"

  Pete cried again.

  "I wanted to. God knows I wanted to kill him for what he did to my Billie Jean."

  "Did you?"

  "No."

  "What did you do?"

  "Sat outside in the car, trying to work up the courage. But I couldn't do it."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I heard Dottie Lynn's voice. She told me, 'Pete, don't do it. You'll go to prison. And Billie Jean will be all alone.' "

  FORTY-NINE

  Trey Rawlins had brought out the worst in Pete Puckett, father of Billie Jean. But Pete's dead wife had saved him from life in prison.

  "That was unexpected," Bobby said through a mouthful of fried shrimp.

  The others had gone back to the house for lunch. Scott and Bobby had gone to the seawall. They were sitting on the same stools at Benno's eating lunch. But Scott couldn't eat.

  "Sad, ain't it?" Bobby said. "Billie Jean."

  "She needed a mother."

  "I hope she can get clean."

  "I might've killed Trey myself, if he'd given cocaine to Boo or Pajamae."

  "I might've helped you."

  After the lunch break, Hank Kowalski stopped Scott again on his way into the courtroom.

  "Hank, I didn't throw that guy out the bathroom window."

  "Never figured you did." He cut his eyes toward Louis sitting in the spectator pews. "And I know he's one of the goons who beat you up on the beach. Way I figure, all's well that ends well."

  Hank reached into his coat pocket and removed the baggie with the four miniature bourbon bottles from the plane.

  "Got these prints back. They match the ones on Trey's mirror in the closet."

  "Shit."

  "So who do they belong to?"

  "You don't want to know." Scott tried to think it through. "Hank, hold on to those bottles and hang around. I'm going to call you to testify next."

  Hank shrugged. "I'll be here."

  Hank left, and Scott called Karen on his cell phone. She was breast-feeding little Scotty, but she answered.

  "Karen, when you checked into the judge, did you find out where she was the night Trey was killed?"

  "Santa Fe, speaking at a continuing legal education program. Didn't come back until Saturday."

  Judge Shelby Morgan was neither a witness nor a suspect. But she had been in Trey's closet. She had probably had sex with Trey. What was Scott supposed to do now? What was his ethical duty? He could bring that fact up and obtain an immediate mistrial. If he did, would the D.A. take Rebecca to trial again? If he did, would she get a fairer trial with another judge? Was Rebecca better off seeing this trial through? Was this her best shot at acquittal? Could Scott hold the judge's relationship with Trey in his pocket like an ace in the hole? If he did, was he risking his own law license? Or something more valuable, like his conscience?

  Scott stood and said, "Defense calls Hank Kowalski."

  Hank took the oath and sat.

  "Mr. Kowalski, after the police department referred this case to the district attorney's office, you were responsible for all the evidence?"

  "Yes, sir, I was."

  "Mr. Deeks, the criminologist, testified that he found three sets of unidentified prints in the Rawlins house-one on the kitchen counter, one on the headboard of the bed in the crime scene, and one on the full-length mirror in the victim's closet, is that correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And he testified that he handed those prints over to you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you subsequently determined that the set on the kitchen counter belonged to Pete Puckett?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And how did you do that?"

  "You gave me a number of items bearing fingerprints of possible suspects. I ran all those prints, including an item with prints on it which you said were Mr. Puckett's. I ran the prints and they matched those on the counter."

  "Did you subsequently determine to whom the set of prints on the headboard belong?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And how did you do that?"

  "On a hunch, I obtained the subject's fingerprints and ran them. They matched."

  "And who was this subject?"

  "Renee Ramirez."

  The courtroom audience gasped. It hadn't been Hank's hunch. After Scott's meeting with Renee at the Hotel Galvez pool bar, he had taken her Mimosa glass and given it to the D.A. for prints. Renee had interviewed Trey at his house only a few weeks before his death. She had given him more than a nice profile on the news.

  "Renee Ramirez's fingerprints were found on the headboard of Trey Rawlins' bed?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Interesting."

  "I thought so."

  Unlike in federal court where the lawyers must stand at a podium to question witnesses, in state court counsel may stand next to the witness, if they so chose. Scott walked over and stood next to Hank but faced the judge.

  "And what about the last set-the prints on the mirror in Trey's closet?"

  "Yes, I've identified those as well."

  The judge's eyes came up.

  "And to whom do they belong?"

  "Well, Mr. Fenney, you're gonna have to tell me that."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because all I know is that the prints on the mirror match the prints on the bourbon bottles."

  The judge interrupted. "Bourbon bottles? What bourbon bottles?"

  Hank reached into his coat and removed the baggie with the miniature bourbon bottles. "These bourbon bottles. Kind they give you on airplane flights."

  Hank handed them up to the judge. She looked closely at them, and when her face came up, Scott knew she had recognized t
hem.

  "Are these in evidence?"

  "No, Your Honor, they're not. Not yet, anyway."

  "And what is the point of this testimony?"

  "If I may, Your Honor, that will become evident." Scott turned back to the witness. "Mr. Kowalski, where did you get those bottles?"

  "From you."

  "And what did you do with them?"

  "I had them checked for fingerprints. Which were found. I then ran the prints against the prints on the mirror. They matched. I then ran them through the FBI's fingerprint database. There was no match."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Means that whoever these belong to has never been arrested and fingerprinted or otherwise had their fingerprints taken by law enforcement and put into the system."

  "On what occasions other than an arrest would someone have their fingerprints taken by law enforcement?"

  "Oh, if you want to work with children, say in child care or as a coach, you have to have a criminal background check. If you want to be a cop or work for the Feds, you've got to."

  "Really? Most federal employees are fingerprinted?"

  "The important positions."

  "Such as?"

  "FBI, DEA, border patrol agents… White House personnel… persons nominated for federal judgeships, that sort of thing."

  "Mr. Kowalski, what would happen if the person to whom the prints on those bourbon bottles belong was now fingerprinted by law enforcement?"

  "Well, the prints would be put into the system and would be spit out as a match to these prints because they were involved in a murder case."

  "But no one would ever know the identity of that person unless that person were to be fingerprinted at some time in the future?"

  "That's correct."

  Scott turned to the judge. Their gazes met for a long moment. The nameplate on the bench read "Hon. Shelby Morgan." He wondered if she was. Honorable. He passed the witness. The D.A. gave Scott and the judge suspicious glances, but he knew better than to ask any questions.

  The judge recessed the trial for the day. She seemed flustered when she stepped off the bench. Scott walked out of the courtroom. Renee Ramirez was not in her booth. She would not return to the trial. The Trey Rawlins murder trial proved to be her ticket off the Island after all.

  Scott seldom slept well during a trial. That night was no exception. But there was a good reason for his restlessness that night: Rebecca would testify the next day.

  He drifted off to sleep around one, but woke just before four. He thought he had heard a noise. He got up and checked on the girls then went downstairs. The sliding glass door leading out to the back deck was open. Rebecca was standing at the far railing, staring out to sea. Scott went to her.

  "I couldn't sleep," she said.

  She was wearing a short white nightgown tight against her body in the breeze and holding onto the railing as if afraid she might be blown off the deck.

  "I had a nightmare-I was in prison." She hesitated. "Scott, if the jury acquits me, can the D.A. charge me with murder again?"

  "No. It's called double jeopardy. Means the government can't try you twice for the same crime. But they can charge you with perjury if you testify and lie under oath."

  "Will I?"

  "Lie?"

  "Testify."

  "Only if you don't want to go to prison. Your prints on the knife, that alone is enough to get the case to the jury. They want to hear you explain why your prints are on the murder weapon, they want to hear you say, 'I didn't kill Trey. I loved him.' "

  "I did. Love him."

  She stared down at the waves, almost as if mesmerized. The moon offered the only light. All the color was washed out by the night. The world was painted only in shades of gray.

  "I've lived my life in shades of gray," she said.

  FIFTY

  Experienced criminal defense lawyers will tell you that the last person they want testifying is the defendant because if the defendant is caught in a lie-any lie, no matter how small or how irrelevant to her guilt or innocence it might be-the jury will never believe another word she says. This was a lesson A. Scott Fenney would learn that day, the fifth day of trial in The State of Texas vs. Rebecca Fenney.

  "The defense calls Rebecca Fenney."

  She wore low heels and a simple green dress. She looked more like a suburban housewife than the hottest WAG on tour. But she could not hide her beauty.

  "Ms. Fenney, did you kill Trey Rawlins?"

  "No."

  "Did you love him?"

  "Yes. Very much."

  "The night he was killed, did he take you out to dinner at Gaido's?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he ask you to marry him?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you accept his proposal?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you and he have sex on the beach that night?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you go to bed together?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you next remember?"

  "I woke up at three-forty-five in the morning and found him dead. I called nine-one-one. The police came."

  "Did you know Trey was having an affair with Billie Jean Puckett?"

  "No."

  "Did Trey ever say he was leaving you for her or any other woman?"

  "No."

  "He gave you money and jewelry?"

  "Yes."

  "Before Trey's death, you lived in a beach house here in Galveston, an oceanfront condo in Malibu, and a ski lodge in Beaver Creek, you drove a Corvette, you stayed in five-star hotels, traveled first class, enjoyed spas…?"

  "Yes."

  "Now you have nothing except the Corvette?"

  "And the jewelry."

  "You have no money, no assets, no home, no life insurance?"

  "No."

  "You had no motive to kill Trey Rawlins?"

  "No."

  "And you did not kill him?"

  "No, I did not."

  During a short recess, Scott noticed the D.A. and his assistant having an animated discussion in the corner of the courtroom. The D.A.'s head was down, and his assistant was pleading. The D.A. finally nodded. When he returned to his table, his eyes met Scott's but not for long. And Scott knew. It was the sex tapes: the Assistant D.A. wanted to introduce the sex tapes, and he had won the argument.

  The judge gaveled the courtroom to order, and the Assistant D.A. stood to cross-examine the defendant charged with stabbing a star athlete to death. This was his big TV moment, and he wanted to make the best of it. Rebecca had been calm and collected during the direct examination because Scott had rehearsed it with her a dozen times. But there was no effective rehearsal for cross-examination by a sneaky prosecuting son of a bitch, and the Assistant D.A. was just such a prosecutor. Rebecca Fenney was nervous, but not as nervous as her lawyer.

  "Ms. Fenney, let's talk about the jewelry Trey Rawlins gave you."

  The Assistant D.A. glanced at Scott and winked. And Scott knew that neither the D.A. nor his assistant had missed it. That was what they had argued about-not the sex tapes. They were going to show that Rebecca had lied-that she had paid Benito cash for the cocaine-that she had the $3 million the mob had paid Trey.

  "Ms. Fenney, during the course of your relationship with Mr. Rawlins, did he give you gifts of jewelry and a Corvette?"

  "Yes."

  "And cash that you used to buy more jewelry?"

  "And clothes."

  "And was that Corvette in the garage of the house you shared with Mr. Rawlins on the night of his death?"

  "Yes."

  "Was the jewelry in the house that night?"

  "Yes."

  "Subsequent to Mr. Rawlins' death, his attorney surrendered possession of the Corvette to you?"

  "Yes."

  "And all the jewelry Mr. Rawlins had given you or that you had purchased with cash he had given you over the course of your relationship?"

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "When what?"

  "When
did Mr. Rawlins' attorney deliver possession of those items to you?"

  "Well, I…"

  "Does Friday June twelfth sound right for the Corvette?"

  "Yes, I think that's right."

  "And Monday June fifteenth for the jewelry? Right here in this courtroom before your arraignment?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay. Now, have you since sold any of that jewelry?"

  "No."

  "Have you since sold the Corvette?"

  "No."

  "So when you testified that you had no money, did you literally mean no money at all? As in zero? Not a single dollar?"

  "Yes."

  "You have no money in a bank account, a shoe box, under your bed, or buried on the beach like Jean Lafitte's treasure? No money anywhere?"

  "No."

  Scott felt sick. It was like watching a speeding freight train bearing down a compact car trying to cross the tracks too late and not being able to stop it.

  "Ms. Fenney, you were aware of Trey's affairs with other women?"

  "No, I was not."

  "You knew he was going to leave you for Billie Jean Puckett?"

  "No. He proposed to me that night."

  A little anger had seeped out.

  "Where were you on the day of June the fourth?"

  "In Houston. At the Galleria."

  "At what time?"

  "I left the house at about ten and returned about six."

  "You were in Houston the entire day?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you and Mr. Rawlins went to Gaido's for dinner?"

  "Yes."

  "At what time?"

  "Seven."

  "And what time did you return to the house?"

  "Ten."

  "What time did you go to bed?"

  "About eleven."

  "And you woke at three-forty-five A.M. and found Mr. Rawlins dead?"

  "Yes."

  "But you heard nothing?"

  "No."

  "Ms. Fenney, did anyone else know that Trey proposed to you?"

  "Ricardo, our waiter."

  "Because you told him?"

  "Yes."

  "Did Trey tell anyone?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "So it's just your word that he proposed to you?"

  "Why would I lie?"

  "Maybe because you killed him."

  "I didn't."

  The Assistant D.A. picked up the murder weapon.

  "Then why are your fingerprints on the murder weapon?"