Accused

by Mark Gimenez

  More silence followed, then Bobby turned to him.

  "Scotty, what are we doing here?"

  Scott did not answer. Because he did not have an answer.

  "Bobby, you thinking what I'm thinking, about those prints on the headboard and mirror?"

  "Yep. They're from women. One holding onto the headboard, the other leaning into the mirror. Our all-American boy took Viagra, watched porn, and had sex with two other women in that house in the last month."

  TWELVE

  Miss SMU had worn a black bikini for the swimsuit competition—and she wore it again that day on the beach. They had found a secluded spot. He waded into the water and watched her perform a striptease on the sand. Then they had sex in the surf.

  It seemed like yesterday instead of thirteen years ago.

  An hour after leaving the crime scene, Scott sat on the back deck drinking a man beer. He needed one after learning that his ex-wife's fingerprints were on the knife that killed Trey Rawlins and seeing the bloody bed where he had died. His eyes were now alternating between the murder book in his lap and Rebecca and Boo on the beach down below—between Rebecca in the bloody nightgown and Rebecca in the black bikini she was now wearing. She was still a remarkably beautiful woman, and he still felt drawn to her.

  But what was he doing here? Was he on a guilt trip, like Bobby said? And what if she were guilty? Defending his ex-wife who was found innocent would not hurt his chances for a federal judgeship. Defending his ex-wife who was found guilty of murdering the man she had left him for would kill any chance. He would have only one option in life. And when it came to Rebecca Fenney, could he ever think like a lawyer and not like a man?

  He looked down at them again. Boo waved to him, and he waved back.

  "I hated you."

  "I know."

  "Do you know how embarrassing it is for a girl my age?"

  "What?"

  "Mother, it was in the paper—everyone knows you ran off with the golf pro!"

  "I'm so sorry, Boo."

  "Pajamae and me, we thought maybe A. Scott could marry her mother—"

  "Her mother? But she was—"

  "Only twenty-four. Way too young for him. But she died." She paused. "Sometimes I wished you had died, too, so the other girls wouldn't tease me."

  Boo had been really happy to see her mother again after almost two years, but a day later the anger had returned. She just couldn't keep it inside her. All the bad memories had come rushing back into her thoughts—the other kids teasing her, saying her mother was just a "ho"—now she wanted to hurt her mother like her mother had hurt her. So she tried to think of things to say that would hurt her mother the most.

  "We sold all your clothes."

  "Even my Jimmy Choos?"

  "Every pair. And your Luca Luca dresses."

  "I loved those clothes."

  "Didn't you love me?"

  "Of course."

  "Then why'd you leave me? Was it my fault?"

  "No, Boo, it wasn't your fault. The walls closed in on me."

  "Walls? What walls?"

  "Boo, you're too young to understand. When you're a woman, you will."

  "I understand you're not supposed to leave your family."

  "No. You're not."

  "We don't have a mother to go on our field trips. A. Scott's the only father."

  "He goes on your field trips?"

  "Of course. The mothers are really happy when he comes."

  "I bet they are."

  "We cried a lot back then."

  "You and Scott?"

  Boo nodded. "We saw you on TV one time, at a golf tournament. I started screaming, 'There's Mother! There's Mother!' Then your boyfriend hugged and kissed you because he won and A. Scott turned the TV off and went outside and sat alone for a long time. I think he was crying."

  Mother didn't say anything.

  "That day you left, you said I'd be better off without you."

  "And were you?"

  Boo lied. "Yes."

  Boo looked up and saw tears running down her mother's face, and she thought, Good. It's your turn to cry. She had wanted to hurt her mother, and she had, but now she felt bad for having done it. She took her mother's hand.

  Louis's sudden presence startled Scott. How could a three-hundred-thirty-pound man walk so softly? Scott had been focused on Rebecca and Boo down on the beach, walking hand in hand.

  "I had a woman once," Louis said. "Loved her till it hurt. And that's all I got from her. A big case of hurt."

  Man's need for love transcended race, color, creed, socioeconomic status, and size.

  "What'd you find out at Gaido's?"

  "They got good fried oysters."

  "From Ricardo."

  "Said Mr. Rawlins and Miz Fenney, they came there a couple times a week, when they was in town. Said he didn't see no strangers that night, just the locals. Said they was drinking and acting real happy that night, said they was pretty drunk time they left, which wasn't unusual. He never heard 'em fussing. Ever. Except—"

  "Except what?"

  "He said Mr. Rawlins had a fat lip that night, like someone hit him in the mouth."

  "Did Ricardo hear Trey propose to her?"

  "No, sir, said he didn't hear that. Said they got up to leave, so he went to the front door with them, then Mr. Rawlins, he went to the men's room. Ricardo said goodnight to Miz Fenney, went back to work before Mr. Rawlins come back."

  "But he knew Trey had asked her to marry him?"

  "Yes, sir. He knew."

  "So when did they tell him?"

  "Not they, Mr. Fenney. Her. She told Ricardo."

  "We, me, us—why does it matter?"

  "It matters, Rebecca, because we don't have a witness who heard Trey propose to you. It's just the word of an accused murderer."

  "Scott, he asked me to marry him."

  Scott had gone down to the beach and sent the girls inside to clean up for dinner. He and Rebecca were now sitting in low chairs under an umbrella on the beach facing the sea. She still wore the black bikini, but he saw the black lingerie.

  "I believe you. But the grand jury's going to indict you Friday."

  "But I didn't kill him! Just because I was sleeping next to him in his blood, that's not proof I killed him! Why do they think I killed him?"

  "Because your fingerprints are on the murder weapon."

  She turned to him with an incredulous expression. "What? How?"

  "That's what I need you to tell me."

  "I don't know."

  "The knife was from your kitchen."

  "Our kitchen?"

  Scott nodded. "The matched set in the drawer. The police didn't tell you?"

  "No."

  "It was the butcher knife. When did you buy that set?"

  "I didn't. Trey got it at a corporate outing, a year or so ago. They always get free stuff like that."

  "Did you use that knife?"

  "Of course. My prints must've been on it from before, when I cut something."

  Scott decided not to mention that her prints were aligned on the knife in a stabbing grip rather than a cutting grip. He didn't want her to make up a reason; the D.A. and jury would see through a lie. Nor did he mention the unidentified prints on the headboard and the mirror in Trey's closet. He didn't want to go there just yet.

  "Why did Trey have a fat lip that night? Did you hit him?"

  "No. He said he slipped in the shower at the club, hit the wall, bloodied his lip."

  "Did you notice the construction crew at the house down the street?"

  She nodded. "They whistled and yelled in Spanish whenever I drove by."

  "They ever come around the house?"

  "Not that I know of. You think they might've …"

  "Anyone might have, Rebecca. We've got to find the person who did."

  He let her absorb that information, then he said, "Tell me about the pornography."

  He expected a reaction, but she only shrugged.

  "That's what m
en his age do these days. It passes for romance."

  "Like taking Viagra?"

  Another shrug. "He said a lot of guys on tour take it."

  "We also found prescriptions for a beta-blocker and Prozac. Did he have high blood pressure or suffer from depression?"

  "No."

  "He didn't have any medical problems?"

  "He was twenty-eight years old, in perfect health."

  "The police found an unidentified set of prints on the island counter in the kitchen. Any idea who they might belong to?"

  "Rosie?"

  He shook his head. "Not hers. Those prints were placed there sometime after noon on Thursday, when Rosie finished cleaning, and before the murder."

  "But no one else was in the house that day except me and Trey and Rosie."

  "Someone else was."

  "Who?"

  "The killer."

  "The 'Guilty Groupie'?"

  Bobby nodded. "Network morning shows ran updates on the case, while you were out running. That Detective Wilson, he gave an interview, said there are no other suspects. Said she did it."

  "How is she supposed to get a fair trial when they put that on national TV? Why do they do that?"

  "Ratings. Gruesome murder cases attract viewers. The 'Craigslist Killer'—"

  A Boston University med student stalked prostitutes through craigslist and killed them.

  —"and the 'Model Murder'—"

  A former dating show participant murdered his ex-wife/model then stuffed her body in a suitcase and fled to Canada where he hung himself in a hotel room.

  —"and the 'Gym Gunman'—"

  A lonely man often rejected by women walked into a gym and gunned down twelve women.

  —"they're yesterday's news. She's today's news. Media tagged her the Guilty Groupie."

  "She wasn't a groupie, and she's not guilty. Did Boo see it?"

  "No. I changed the channel."

  "Thanks."

  After dinner, Rebecca had taken the girls down to the beach to scour the sand for seashells. Consuela and Louis were on kitchen duty—he was teaching her Cajun cooking and she was teaching him Spanish—and Scott was holding Maria at the table on the back deck. She had her mother's sweet smile. The first day's investigation had dealt the defense team a few surprises, so they had gathered for their initial strategy session. Karen wore a maternity sundress and manned her laptop. Carlos wore a tight muscle shirt that exposed his biceps and tattoos. Bobby puffed on the D.A.'s big Cuban cigar like Fidel Castro.

  "It's still tobacco," Karen said.

  "I'm not inhaling."

  "Famous last words."

  "Carlos," Scott said, "I know you're studying with Karen to be a paralegal, but I need you to do another job for a while."

  "Sure, boss."

  "You ever roof a house?"

  Carlos chuckled. "My folks came up from Mexico. I grew up roofing houses in East Dallas with my dad. I can roof a house in my sleep."

  "Good. There's a construction crew working at a house down the street from the crime scene. Mexican immigrants. Go over there tomorrow morning and see if you can hire on, get to know the men, find out if they know anything. Or did anything."

  "You mean, if they killed him?"

  "Or know who did. Or saw anything. And take some baggies—if you can get their prints on something, bag it. But don't get caught."

  "All right … undercover work."

  "And Carlos—don't wear leather."

  Carlos grinned. "Okay, boss."

  Scott turned to Karen. "You get a timeline for Trey and Rebecca?"

  "Right here." She tapped on her laptop. "Trey left for the country club at nine, practiced all day … Rebecca left about ten, spent the day shopping at the Galleria in Houston, got back at six … they went to Gaido's at seven. You know the rest."

  "Rosie cleaned the house that morning, left at noon. So the house was empty all afternoon. Maybe one of those workers came in, got the layout, robbed the place, took the knife, came back later and killed Trey."

  "You think those prints on the kitchen counter belong to one of those construction workers?" Bobby said.

  "They'd have big hands. And they had a direct line of sight to the house, they would've seen everyone coming and going. They'd know Trey had fancy cars, money … and that they were out of town a lot."

  "But if he left his prints in the kitchen, why not somewhere else in the house? And on the knife? And as far as we know, nothing was taken. Why would he come back just to stab Trey?"

  Scott shook his head. "I don't know. But those construction workers are our only suspects."

  "Rebecca's prints are on the murder weapon," Bobby said.

  "She's innocent."

  "Shawanda's fingerprints were on the murder weapon, the gun that killed Clark McCall—you thought she was guilty."

  "I was wrong. I'm not going to make the same mistake again."

  "What if this time it's not a mistake?"

  "Bobby, you know her. You think she could've done that?"

  "Scotty, I knew her thirteen years ago, when we were in law school. I don't know her now. All I know is her prints are on the knife that killed Trey Rawlins. That alone will get her life in prison." Bobby exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke, which Karen waved away. "Look, Scotty, I know criminal defense lawyers represent guilty people all the time—but we don't."

  Scott turned back to Karen. "You never met Rebecca until yesterday. You interviewed her this morning. What's your evaluation?"

  "She seemed credible. She shops all day, comes home, they go to dinner, Trey proposes, they get drunk, have sex on the beach—DNA will prove up that—and they go to bed at eleven. Preliminary autopsy report puts time of death between midnight and three. So an hour or two after they go to bed, she suddenly decides to stab him with a butcher knife? I don't buy it. And I think she'd make a good witness. She was very poised."

  "Too poised," Bobby said. "If you'd been murdered five days ago, I wouldn't be speaking in complete sentences yet."

  Karen smiled at him. "That's sweet."

  "She's still in shock," Scott said. "This morning on the beach, she broke down. But I'm not sure we can put her on the stand."

  "Scotty, if she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life in prison, she's got to take the stand and tell the jury she didn't do it," Bobby said. "And if she didn't, we've got to tell the jury who did. She had the means—the knife was in the kitchen—and the opportunity—Trey was sleeping in bed next to her—so it comes down to motive. Why would she do it? No will, no life insurance, no joint assets … and now she's homeless. She stood to lose everything and did."

  "I'm running asset searches," Karen said. "And guys, I think we need to dig into Trey Rawlins big time. Boy hides his porn, might be something else he's hiding."

  "Guns, porn, Viagra—not exactly the all-American boy in those commercials."

  "Actually, Scotty," Bobby said, "that is all-American stuff today. But it doesn't fit his public image, drinking chocolate milk and cheering up sick kids, which gives us something to work with—juries hate two-faced defendants … and victims. Except you told the D.A. you wouldn't put Trey on trial."

  "I know." Scott turned to Karen. "You're right. The 'good Trey' we saw on TV might not be the real Trey. Bobby, you go over to his country club tomorrow, find out what they know. Karen, you do your searches, dig up everything you can on Trey … and while you're at it, find out what you can about the judge. Looks like she's going to be on the prosecution team. Carlos, you hang out with those construction workers, see what they know. I'm going to see Trey's accountant. Anything else?"

  Karen glanced at Bobby who glanced at Carlos who glanced at Scott.

  "Spit it out."

  "We've been thinking," Bobby said. "Maybe she should take a polygraph. We could find a private guy, keep it confidential. If she fails, we bury it. If she passes, we take it to the D.A. And at least we'd know what we're dealing with."

  "And if she refuses?"

 
; "That tells us what we need to know, too."

  Scott considered the idea for a moment then sighed. "Find someone, Karen."

  Maria grimaced and grunted, and a foul smell suddenly filled the air. Scott stood and handed the baby to Bobby.

  "Here. You need the practice."

  Bobby held the baby up and peeked inside her diaper. He made a face.

  "Shit—that ain't guacamole."

  Scott stepped to the railing and stared out to sea. The sun was orange at the horizon and shot yellow streaks across the water, the waves broke into whitecaps and rolled lazily ashore, the heat of the day had eased and the evening promised to be pleasant. Any other summer, this would be the perfect vacation. But not this summer.

  "Bobby, maybe I am here on a guilt trip. I don't know. But I'm doing this because I don't think she's a murderer and because I don't want Boo to visit her mother in prison … and because I'm responsible for her."

  "She's not your wife anymore."

  "She's the mother of my child. I'll always be responsible for her. You'll understand, when that baby is born."

  Scott watched Rebecca with the girls on the beach. If he didn't defend her, if he didn't at least try to save her life, and she spent the rest of her life in prison, he—and Boo—would serve out the sentence with her. He could do the time—he had already served two years—but he couldn't do that to Boo.

  "Bobby, I've got to do this. You and Karen don't. It's okay with me if you want to go back to Dallas."

  "Like that's gonna happen."

  He stuck a fist out to Scott. They bumped knuckles, a male-bonding ritual.

  "We're brothers, Scotty."

  "Thanks. Now let's find the guy who put those prints on the kitchen counter. He's the killer."

  THIRTEEN

  On the morning of September 8, 1900, thirty-seven thousand people lived on the Island, Galveston was the financial and shipping center of the southwestern United States, and the Strand in downtown was known as the Wall Street of the Southwest.

  By the morning of September 9, 1900, six thousand people were dead, the Strand sat under fifteen feet of water, and Galveston lay in ruins. The "Great Storm"—a Category 4 hurricane packing one-hundred-forty-miles-per-hour winds—had come ashore during the night. A hundred years later, that storm still ranked as the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history, and Galveston still had not recovered its former glory.