Accused

by Mark Gimenez

"To prove you didn't kill Trey. If you pass, the D.A. might drop the charges."

  "And if I don't pass?"

  Scott didn't say anything.

  "Don't worry, Scott, I'll pass. I'm not the Guilty Groupie."

  "So you'll do it?"

  "Sure. And I don't believe Trey had an affair with Tess."

  That she agreed to take a polygraph told Scott all he needed to know about his client. But there was more he needed to know about his ex-wife.

  "Why didn't you tell me the truth back then? How you really felt?"

  They were walking the beach at sunset. It was peaceful out here, and with ten people living in the house, the beach offered the only privacy available for a confidential conversation between an attorney and client—or a man and his ex-wife.

  "Scott, we learn when we're girls to lie to men."

  "Why?"

  "To survive. So we don't hurt our man's fragile psyche and lose him and our place in life. 'Yes, honey, of course, you're the first' … 'Of course, you're the best' … 'Of course, I came.' "

  "Did you lie to me about that?"

  "No."

  "Are you lying now?"

  "No."

  "How do I know?"

  "You don't. Men never know when we're lying to them. Men don't want to know. Men can't handle the truth."

  "Do all women lie?"

  "All women live in a man's world, so all women lie. They have to. At least all women who depend on a man for their survival. Everything we need comes from a man—our homes, our cars, our jewelry, our shoes—because it's a man's world. You see on TV these women writing books about dating and marriage, they're all titled 'How to Marry a Rich Man.' And the advice is to lie. Lie about your past, lie about your future, lie about your needs and wants and desires, lie about who you really are so he'll marry you. We lie to get married and we lie to stay married. We can't tell the truth and risk having our existence taken from us."

  "Men don't have a clue about women, do we?"

  "Not a clue."

  They walked through the sand in silence.

  "Scott, why do you think women buy millions of romance novels every year?"

  "I don't know."

  "Because in romance novels the women aren't dependent on men, not sexually or financially. They're in control of their bodies and their bank accounts, they have the power, they have the money. Not being financially dependent on a man, that's a woman's true romantic fantasy."

  "I guess we should make women take polygraphs before marriage."

  "We'd find a way to beat it. Truth or lie, right or wrong, black or white—that's a man's life. Women live in shades of gray."

  Scott stared down the sand to the girls playing in front of the house with little Maria and Consuela in a Mexican peasant dress. Louis stood nearby reading his book.

  "Will Boo and Pajamae lie to men?"

  "Yes, they will."

  "I don't want them to."

  "Then go back to Ford Stevens and make millions so they'll be financially independent. So they can be honest with the men in their lives. So they don't have to hide who they really are. So they won't have to compete for their men every day of their lives."

  "Compete for their men?"

  "Scott, a woman always has to compete for her man."

  "Why?"

  "Because in every woman's life, there's always another woman."

  Rebecca spoke as if reading a verse from the Bible.

  "The players competed on the course, we competed for the players off the course. More tour women working out in the fitness trailer than tour players."

  "That's what Nick said."

  She patted her flat abs. "Two hundred sit-ups a day, an hour on the StairMaster, another hour on the Bowflex. I could compete."

  She was in very good shape. Which was evident in the skimpy yellow bikini. The sea breeze brought her scent to him. He breathed her in.

  "And it's worse for a beautiful woman."

  "Why is it worse to be beautiful?"

  "Because a beautiful girl is supposed to be a sex object, not a person. She's supposed to sell her beauty to the highest bidder—that's a beautiful woman's career path. That's how my mother raised me, to be a thing of beauty, to be admired and purchased by a man. And men expect to buy you, just like they buy a sports car. A beautiful woman is a possession a man shows off to other men, and when that possession gets a little dinged up, he trades it in for a new model. You saw the women out there on tour—you see any ugly women with those rich golfers?"

  "No. So you knew about Trey and Tess?"

  "No. But I'm not stupid. On tour, there are always women making themselves available to the players. Christ, Tess McBride was a Hooters girl."

  "She placed second in the Miss Hooters pageant."

  "I placed first in the Miss SMU pageant, and there's not a Hooters girl in the world who can compete with an SMU coed."

  She was right.

  "I'm going to talk to her. Tess."

  "When?"

  "Tomorrow, at the tournament. After the grand jury hearing."

  "Why?"

  "Because I think someone on the pro golf tour killed Trey."

  SEVENTEEN

  Four fail-safes exist to protect the accused in the American criminal justice system: the grand jury, the district attorney, the judge, and the trial jury.

  In Texas, politics quickly overcomes the district attorney and the judge—they're lawyers, they're ambitious, and they're elected. And emotion and prejudice overcome trial juries before they are even seated. By the first day of trial, the publicity surrounding the case—especially a high-profile murder case—has overwhelmed the jurors' impartiality. Judgments have already been made, if not rendered. Every lawyer knows that there is no such thing as an impartial jury. Everyone is partial. Which leaves the grand jury as an innocent person's only hope for justice.

  In Texas, one shouldn't hold out much hope.

  Grand juries in Texas are selected pursuant to the "key man" system: the presiding judge picks three grand jury commissioners—that is, three friends—who in turn pick twelve grand jurors—their friends—who then sit as the grand jury. A few judges have recognized the bias inherent in the key man system and have opted for random selection of grand jurors from voter registration records—but only a few, because to buck the system is to ensure that you will never move up to higher judicial office.

  Judge Shelby Morgan wanted to move up.

  The Grand Jury Room was located on the first floor of the Galveston County Courts Building adjacent to the district attorney's office. Which was convenient. The D.A. didn't have to walk far to get an indictment.

  Scott sat on the front row and observed the twelve friends—the Galveston County Grand Jury—gathered that Friday morning. Non-lawyers would expect a grand jury to be just that: grand. Special. Noble. It wasn't. It was painfully normal. The jurors were all white men, which did not present a constitutional issue since Rebecca Fenney was white. Only one juror wore a tie; the others wore shirts and slacks or jeans. One owned an Italian restaurant, another a furniture store, a third an insurance agency. One was a dentist, another the plant manager at a refinery. All were BOI—born on the Island. It seemed more like a meeting of the local rotary club than a grand jury about to decide whether an American citizen should stand trial for murder.

  They did not appear mean-spirited. In fact, they appeared like the men you might meet on the street, men who smiled and said "hidi" and held doors open for ladies, men who readily stopped and fixed a stranded woman's flat tire, men who attended church. They were just regular folks who cared about their community.

  And like regular folks, they feared crime.

  They saw on television and read in newspapers about brutal, stupid, senseless violent crimes committed every day in America, and they were afraid. They couldn't keep criminals off the Island, so they did the only thing they knew to keep their Island safe: they indicted every person the district attorney brought before them. And why shouldn
't they? They had voted for the D.A. They trusted him. If he said someone should stand trial, who were they to question his judgment? They weren't lawyers. He was. They didn't know the law. He did. And he had promised to keep them safe from crime.

  Consequently, no lawyer in America holds more power than a county prosecutor.

  At exactly nine o'clock, Galveston County Assistant Criminal District Attorney Theodore Newman, his face aglow with a prosecutor's power, stood and told the grand jurors that Rebecca Fenney had murdered Trey Rawlins by stabbing an eight-inch butcher knife from her own kitchen into his chest while he slept in their bed. He called one witness, Detective Chuck Wilson, who testified that Rebecca Fenney's fingerprints were found on the murder weapon.

  None of the grand jurors asked a single question.

  By law, no one—not even the district attorney—is allowed inside the room while the grand jurors deliberate and vote to either "true bill"—indict—or "no bill"—decline to indict—the accused. So at nine-fifteen that morning, Scott was sitting outside on a bench in the corridor. The fact that a grand jury was voting at that very moment to indict his ex-wife for murder—and knowing he was powerless to stop it—made his face flush hot. He would have to tell the mother of his child that she would stand trial for murder and that if convicted, she could be sentenced to life in prison.

  But not to death.

  The death penalty may be assessed only for "capital murders": serial murders; murders of children, cops, firefighters, judges, and prison guards; murders committed in the course of a rape, kidnapping, robbery, or arson; and murders for hire. Simply shooting, stabbing, or beating another human being to death with a baseball bat will get you five years to life in prison.

  If the district attorney had his way, Rebecca Fenney would spend the rest of her life inside those bleak brick buildings behind the tall fence with concertina wire. Boo would visit her mother in prison—unless her father found the killer. He was her only hope. Their only hope.

  Scott's face still felt hot when the world around him suddenly turned a bright searing white. He thought the girls' fear had come true—he really was having a heart attack or perhaps a stroke—until he heard a female voice: "Mr. Fenney, do you think the grand jury will indict your wife?"

  Scott shielded his eyes from the light and saw a woman holding a microphone in his face. Renée Ramirez.

  "Ex-wife."

  Scott stood and walked down the hall to the men's room.

  By nine-thirty, the grand jury had voted to indict Rebecca Fenney for murder.

  Indictment starts the clock ticking in the American criminal justice system. Both the U.S. and Texas Constitutions guarantee the right to a speedy trial. Under federal law, the defendant must be tried within seventy days of indictment; the general rule under Texas law is one hundred eighty days, unless the defendant agrees to a continuance. Most do. Rebecca Fenney would not. She could not afford to live in doubt for more than six months, and her lawyer could not afford to live in Galveston for more than sixty days.

  The clock was now ticking on Rebecca Fenney's freedom.

  Renée Ramirez had retreated to the entrance lobby where she was flirting with the deputies manning the metal detector, and Scott was again sitting on the bench outside the Grand Jury Room when the D.A. sat down next to him. Rex Truitt's face was not aglow with power; it was weary with the responsibility of putting American citizens in prison for the last twenty-eight years.

  "You really gonna do it? Defend her?"

  Scott nodded. "I have to."

  "I suppose you do. Well, bring her in Monday, nine A.M. I'll hold the warrant till then. We'll book her and arraign her."

  "Thanks, Rex. That wouldn't happen in Dallas."

  "This ain't Dallas." The D.A. loosened his tie. "Might want to leave out the back way. Renée's out front. She's a goddamn pit bull with makeup." The D.A. leaned back. "Twenty years, Scott."

  "What?"

  "Plea bargain. Twenty years for her guilty plea. Life expectancy of a white female in the U.S. is seventy-eight. She'll be eligible for parole in ten. We'll agree not to oppose it. She'll be forty-five, have thirty-three good years left. But if we go to trial, Scott, we're asking for life without parole. She did it, and the jury will convict her."

  "She didn't do it, Rex."

  "You find any evidence of that?"

  "I found someone with a motive to murder Trey."

  "Who?"

  "His ex-caddie. Clyde Dalton, goes by 'Goose.' "

  "I've seen him on TV. What's his story?"

  "Trey fired him down in Mexico a few months ago—"

  "I remember something about that."

  "Then refused to pay Goose the hundred thousand he owed him."

  "A hundred grand? That's what caddies make?"

  "Ten percent for a win."

  "Shit, I should've been a caddie."

  "Goose wasn't happy about it. He was caddying in Florida last Thursday for another player, but he flew back to Austin that same day, got in at five, which means—"

  "He could've driven down here in time to kill Trey."

  Scott nodded.

  "Except his prints aren't on the murder weapon."

  Scott reached into his briefcase and removed the baggie holding Goose's beer can.

  "His prints are on this can. I can get a private lab to run them, but you could have the state lab run them, see if they match the unidentified prints at the crime scene. See if he was in Trey's house that day."

  "You trust me not to hide the results?"

  Scott looked the D.A. in the eye. "I do."

  The D.A. took the baggie. "Okay, I'll run 'em. What else?"

  "We learned some things about Trey."

  "Such as?"

  "Porn and Viagra."

  "You're gonna put him on trial, aren't you?"

  "No. I'm going to find his killer."

  "Just look across the dinner table tonight." He ran his hand through his white hair. "Scott, I take Viagra. Hell, every guy over forty out at the club swears by that blue pill. It's the elixir of youth, and it's legal. So is porn. Stay in a five-star hotel and you can watch it for free. Not my cup of tea, but what a man does is his business, as long as he doesn't do it with children or in public."

  "But porn and Viagra—that doesn't exactly fit his all-American chocolate-milk public image, does it? Maybe there's another side to Trey Rawlins."

  "Scott, some pro athletes are exactly what they seem to be. Some don't have a dark side."

  "Rex, you ever heard of denial?"

  "Have you?"

  He was an old lawyer in an old office in an old building in the old part of downtown.

  "Trey never executed a will."

  Melvyn Burke was the older man in the suit at the funeral. And he wore a suit that hot and humid Friday morning. He had practiced law on the Island for forty-two years. Wills and estates mostly, some contracts and real estate. He was representing the Estate of Trey Rawlins, and he appeared to be carrying the weight of the world on his slumped shoulders. Thirty minutes after leaving the courthouse, Scott sat on the other side of Melvyn Burke's desk.

  "So under the intestacy laws," Melvyn said, "his entire estate goes to his only surviving relative, Terri Rawlins, his sister. Rebecca's entitled to nothing."

  "You represented Trey on all his legal matters?"

  Melvyn nodded. "Except his endorsement contracts. His agent handled those. I handled his personal matters—the house, cars, boat. Rex let you take Rebecca's clothes from the house?"

  "And makeup. Can she have her jewelry? They were gifts from Trey."

  "I'll talk to Terri." He exhaled heavily. "She's really got the red ass for Rebecca."

  "Why?"

  "Because she thinks Rebecca killed her twin brother."

  "What do you think?"

  "I think you should hire another lawyer to represent your wife."

  "Melvyn, I couldn't afford to hire myself."

  "Scott, a lawyer can only defend his client. He
can't love her, too. You lose, it'll ruin your career. And your life."

  "Would you stand by and watch an innocent person be sent to prison?"

  Melvyn's eyes dropped, and Scott knew there was more to learn from Melvyn Burke. Behind his eyes resided a lifetime of clients' secrets—and the burden that comes with keeping them secret. For a moment, Scott thought Melvyn would not speak again. But he finally looked up and said, "The car is hers."

  "What car?"

  "The red Corvette. Trey had me put the title in her name."

  Melvyn opened a clasp folder and removed a set of car keys. He slid them across the desk to Scott.

  "Car's not part of the probate estate. You can take it."

  "What are you going to do with the rest of Trey's property?"

  "Estate sale. Terri doesn't want the house where her brother was killed or the Bentley he drove. And she lives in Austin, so she's got no use for the yacht. With the economy, it's not exactly the best time to sell a two-million-dollar boat. Broker says we'll be lucky to get five hundred thousand."

  "Was Trey involved in any lawsuits?"

  "No."

  "Melvyn, you got any idea who might've killed him?"

  "Rex says your wife did."

  "She didn't. I'm trying to find the real killer."

  "So what do you want from me?"

  "Information. About Trey. Did he say anything to you? About anything going on in his life? Anything that might tell us who killed him? Was he going to marry Rebecca?"

  "Attorney-client privilege, Scott."

  "Your client's dead."

  "The privilege lives on, you know that."

  "His sister is his personal representative. She can waive it."

  "She won't."

  "Why not?"

  "Like I said, she thinks your wife killed her brother."

  "Ex-wife."

  Scott held out his card.

  "That's my cell phone. If you think of anything, Melvyn, please call me. I don't want an innocent person to go to prison."

  "Grand jury indict her?"

  "This morning."

  EIGHTEEN

  Murder is about motive. A reason to kill. The district attorney was right: there's always a reason for one human being to kill another. But Rebecca Fenney had no reason to kill Trey Rawlins. She had no motive to murder.