by Mark Gimenez
"You can't set bail to punish the defendant, force her to stay incarcerated through the trial."
"I can't go any lower than that—Renée would have a field day."
"That's grounds for recusal, Judge. Karen, prepare a motion."
The judge's face flashed red again, and this time she did have a Serena moment.
"Don't you fucking dare!"
"Judge, I don't live here. It won't affect my law career, having a judge pissed off at me. My only concern is that the defendant get a fair trial. If you can't give her that because of your concern about the press coverage … or for other personal reasons … then I'll file that motion. And I will take that to the federal court."
"Mr. Fenney, I can hold you in contempt!" She pointed a manicured finger at Scott. "You're not a legend in my courtroom! You're just another goddamned lawyer!"
"Judge, my client—"
"Your wife."
"My client is entitled to a fair trial and I'm gonna make damn sure she gets one. If you can't give her a fair trial, then recuse yourself and let another judge do it."
Judge Shelby Morgan glared at Scott.
"She'll get a fair trial, Mr. Fenney."
When they exited the judge's chambers and walked back into the courtroom, the D.A. whistled and said, "Damn, Scott, you really know how to make a good first impression."
"I try. I figured we might as well clear the air now, before we go to trial."
"Oh, I think you cleared the air all right. But what's the personal reason?"
"The judge and I are both up for a federal judgeship in Dallas."
"Buford's bench?"
Scott nodded. "He's dying."
"Heard he was sick."
"Senator Armstrong said he owes Judge Morgan."
"I expect he does." He didn't elaborate. "So Shelby might be leaving the Island, huh?" The D.A. smiled. "Hell, not all bad news then."
They grabbed their briefcases and the bag of jewelry then opened the courtroom doors and came face to face with a dozen cameras shining bright lights and reporters shoving microphones and shouting questions. Renée Ramirez was the leader of this pack.
"Mr. Fenney, why are you defending your ex-wife when she's charged with murdering the man she left you for?"
Scott maintained his lawyerly expression. "Because she's innocent."
They pushed forward down the corridor toward the elevators.
"Why won't she take a polygraph?"
"Because polygraphs are not reliable indicators of guilt or innocence, which is why they're not admissible in any court of law in America."
"Why were her fingerprints on the murder weapon?"
"Are your fingerprints on your kitchen knives?"
Scott saw Renée's obvious frustration with his answers and figured she'd give up. She didn't. She had one more question.
"Mr. Fenney—do you still love your wife?"
Scott knew his expression had let him down, and so did Renée. She had a "gotcha" grin on her face.
"Ex-wife."
Carlos had jogged ahead and gotten an elevator; he held it open for the others. Once they were aboard, he let the doors close, shutting out the cameras. The D.A. turned to Scott.
"You okay? That last one was a cheap shot. But that's Renée."
"I'm a big boy."
Bobby held up the official Houston Classic tournament tote bag.
"Rex, we've got some evidence for you."
"And I've got some evidence for you."
TWENTY-FOUR
The D.A. sat behind his desk under the sailfish, and Ted Newman sat against the wall. Hank Kowalski had joined them and stood next to Newman. The defense team faced the D.A. from across his desk. Karen opened her laptop like a gunner setting up field artillery. Bobby opened the tote bag and removed the baggies containing the fingerprint evidence Scott had collected at the golf tournament. He placed them on the desk.
"Ah, more fingerprints," the D.A. said. "Well, Hank ran Goose's prints. Didn't match the unidentified prints at the crime scene. Who are these from?"
"Suspects."
Hank stepped over and examined the baggies one by one; each was identified with initials. "Glass marked 'TM' … soda can marked 'LP' … plastic container marked 'RH' … Houston Classic golf programs marked 'BM' and 'DP' and 'VH' … Budweiser beer bottle marked 'NM' … five Corona beer bottles marked 'CW'. I can guess where these came from."
The D.A. turned to Scott. "You don't want to tell me who they belong to?"
"Not yet."
The D.A. nodded. "Run 'em, Hank." To Scott: "That it?"
"For now."
"Okay. My turn."
The D.A. pushed a thick stack of papers across the desk. Scott handed them to Bobby.
"Item one: log and copies of all emails to and from Trey over the last six months, including to his website. My tech man got them off his laptop."
Bobby scanned the log and said, "None to or from the other women."
The D.A.: "What other women?"
"We've learned that Trey was promiscuous," Scott said.
"Promiscuous? Last time I checked the Penal Code, that's not illegal in Texas, thank God, or we'd never clear the docket." The DA chuckled. "Hell, Scott, if I looked like him and was rich like him, I'd damn sure be promiscuous."
"With married women?"
The D.A. shrugged. "Maybe not with our gun laws. What married women?"
"Other golfers' wives. On tour."
"You know this for a fact?"
"They admitted it."
"You're gonna put Trey on trial, aren't you?"
"No, Rex, I'm going to find his killer."
"She's over at the jail. Look, Scott, Trey was young and rich and famous—didn't you have some fun when you were young?"
"Not with married women."
The Assistant D.A. snorted. "Well, at least you know Trey wasn't picking on you, taking your wife."
An awkward silence captured the room. The D.A. grimaced, a common expression when the Assistant D.A. was present. Scott waited for the D.A. to reprimand his assistant, but instead the D.A. bent over, opened a lower desk drawer, and came back up with a box of dog biscuits. He stuck his hand inside the box and pulled out a little brown biscuit. He flipped it over to his assistant.
"Down, boy."
The others choked back laughter, but the Assistant D.A.'s face flushed a bright red. "Rex, are you trying to humiliate me?"
"No, Ted, you're doing a damn fine job of that on your own. I'm trying to teach you humility. There's a difference." The D.A. turned to Karen: "Sure you don't want to move to the Island? You could be the first female D.A. in the history of Galveston." The D.A. gestured at the baggies. "These their prints, those wives'?"
"And their husbands'."
"You figure a jealous husband for the killer?"
"Could be."
"Could be your wife was the jealous party."
"Trey proposed to her that night."
"So she said."
The D.A. pushed another document across the desk.
"Item two: list of websites Trey visited over the last six months. Common theme seems to be porn."
Scott passed it on to Bobby. Karen leaned toward Bobby to read the list.
"Did he go onto Facebook?" she said.
"Every day the last couple of weeks," Bobby said.
"What's your point?" the D.A. said.
"Trey could have communicated with someone through their Facebook account, online but outside his email accounts."
"Like who?"
Karen tapped on the laptop keyboard then turned the screen toward the D.A. On the screen was a Facebook profile.
"Like her."
"Who's Billie Jean Puckett?"
"Pete Puckett's seventeen-year-old daughter."
"The golf pro?"
Scott nodded. "Trey was having an affair with Billie Jean. Pete threatened to kill him if he didn't stay away from her. Happened at the Challenge tournament in California, one week before Tre
y was killed. There was a witness, another golfer."
"I take it he didn't? Stay away from her?"
"No. He didn't."
The D.A. again gestured at the baggies. "You got Pete's prints?"
"Not yet. But he seems capable of violence. He threatened me after his round on Friday, with a one-iron."
"A one-iron?" The D.A. grunted. "Most pros carry the hybrids now, you can hit the ball higher—"
"The prints on the kitchen counter are from a big man. The construction workers down the street, they told Carlos they saw a big man at Trey's house the day he was killed. And a blonde girl."
Hank snorted. "They told us they didn't see nothing."
"You're a cop," Carlos said.
"True."
"I've seen Pete on TV," the D.A. said. "He's a big man." He gestured at the Facebook profile. "And Billie Jean's still blonde?"
"She is," Scott said. "And Pete's a hunter, good with guns and knives. And he was in Trey's house that day."
"Can you prove it?"
"Not yet."
"Let me know when you can."
"Rex, I think Pete Puckett killed Trey."
"Thought the caddie killed him?"
"You just said his prints didn't match."
"Scott," Karen said, "we should subpoena Facebook, get all of Billie Jean's messages. Maybe she said something to Trey about Pete's threats."
The D.A. turned his palms up at Scott. "Facebook, Twitter, texting, sexting—you ever feel like you're living in a parallel universe?"
"All the time," Scott said, "with two eleven-year-old daughters." To Karen: "Where's their headquarters? Facebook's."
Karen typed. "California. Their only presence in Galveston County is online. No way they comply with a state court subpoena."
"They might if I sign the subpoena," the D.A. said.
"You'd do that?"
"Sure. Like I said, Scott, I think your wife killed Trey. But if she didn't, I want to find out who did." To Karen: "Write the subpoena, Professor."
"I usually write the subpoenas," the Assistant D.A. said.
"I know." To Scott: "Even if Pete was in Trey's house, his prints weren't on the knife. Your wife's were. You got that good explanation yet?"
"Not yet."
"Let me know when you do."
The D.A. handed over another document.
"Item three: phone logs, landline and cell. His landline bills were at the house, so we ran all those numbers. The logs list all calls, the parties, dates, times, and duration of the calls."
Scott scanned the logs. "Lots of calls to Terri and Rebecca. None to the other women."
"What about his cell?" Bobby said.
"We got the log off the phone," the D.A. said.
"He might've deleted some calls. But every call—even the deleted ones—shows up on the phone bills. We need to subpoena Trey's cell phone records."
"Okay. Write that one up, too."
"Trey's last calls that Thursday were to and from Rebecca, Tom Taylor, and a Benito Estrada at six-eighteen P.M.," Scott said. "Who's he?"
The D.A. leaned back in his chair and cut a glance at Hank.
"Well, that brings me to item four: the toxicology report." He put on his reading glasses, picked up a document, and read. "Trey Rawlins' blood alcohol level at the time of his death was point-two-six, three times the legal limit. He also had cocaine in his system. Six hundred nanograms per milliliter."
"Trey used cocaine?"
The D.A. nodded.
"How much is that? Six hundred nanograms."
"A lot."
"Enough to cause an overdose?"
"I asked the M.E. that same question. Can't have a murder case if the victim died before he was stabbed."
"We could still charge her with abuse of a corpse," the Assistant D.A. said.
The D.A. ignored his assistant. "M.E. said he was alive when he was stabbed because his heart pumped out so much blood."
"Was cocaine found in the house?"
"Nope." The D.A. rubbed his face. "Good thing his dad's dead 'cause this would've killed him." He looked up at Scott. "I'm no longer in denial about Trey."
"I'm sorry, Rex. I know you cared for him."
The D.A.'s face was grim. He exhaled and said, "Now it's your turn, Scott."
"My turn for what?"
"To end your denial. About your wife."
The room turned quiet, and Scott became aware of his own breathing.
The D.A.'s eyes dropped to the report. "We took a blood sample from her, too. Her blood alcohol level was point-two-two."
"She said they'd been drinking at Gaido's."
"And we can probably suppress that at trial," Karen said. "No PC to draw her blood and—"
"Incident to her arrest," the Assistant D.A. said.
"She wasn't arrested for DUI."
"No. For murder."
"But the law requires—"
Scott held up his hand to Karen. The D.A. had not looked up from the report. There was more.
"What is it, Rex?"
The D.A. looked up now. "Scott, your wife had cocaine in her system, too. Four hundred nanograms. She was drunk and stoned. Could be why she slept in Trey's blood."
During a football game at SMU, Scott Fenney, number 22, had run around right end then made a sharp cut back to the middle of the field past the defenders going the other way. Scott had a clear field to the end zone … except the last defender threw a thick forearm out and caught Scott right above his facemask. The force knocked him unconscious. When he came to, he felt dazed and confused, as if his mind couldn't put two words together. And so he felt now. Bobby subbed for him.
"Could be why she didn't wake up when the killer came into the bedroom and stabbed Trey."
"Look, Scott," the D.A. said, "I know y'all have a daughter, so I'm not going to release this report. But it'll come out at trial."
Scott tried to grasp the thought that Rebecca had used cocaine. He couldn't.
"You're sure? About the cocaine?"
"You can run your own tests, we took extra blood from her."
The D.A. slid the report across the desk. Scott did not pick it up.
"So what's all this got to do with Benito Estrada?"
"He's a known drug dealer on the Island. Him and Trey, they were cell phone buddies. Means Trey was a regular customer. And a special one."
"Tell me about him. Benito."
"Twenty-eight, Harvard-educated, BOI. Runs the Gulf Coast operation for the Guadalajara cartel. Considers himself a businessman, even acts like one—supports the community, gave half a million for Ike relief, something of an icon among his folks. But he runs his operation like a business, so we haven't had the turf wars and gun battles in the streets like the border towns."
"In Mexico?"
"In Texas."
"The Muertos brought the drug war across the river," Hank said.
"Who are the Muertos?"
"Los Muertos. The Dead. Enforcers for the cartels. Ex-commandos in the Mexican Army—we trained them to fight the cartels, then they hired out to the cartels. All that stuff you've seen on TV about the drug war in Mexico—kidnappings, eight thousand murders last year, headless bodies hanging from overpasses and dumped into the Rio Grande—that's the Muertos' handiwork. Those guys make the Mafia look like middle-school bullies. And they control the country. We've put Mexico on the verge of collapse as a nation."
"How?"
"Drug money. Mexicans send the drugs north, Americans send weapons and twenty billion in cash south to the cartels—every year. Imagine if the Saudis sent twenty billion a year to Islamic extremists in the U.S. and they used that money to kill eight thousand Americans every year—we'd want to bomb Saudi Arabia back into the Stone Age. But we tell the Mexicans to keep the dope south of the river 'cause we know Americans won't stop using. Easier to blame it on the Mexicans than to accept responsibility for all those people getting killed."
"And these Muertos are in Texas?"
"They're everywhere now. Five dealers in Atlanta, they owed the cartels two hundred thousand dollars, didn't pay, so they sent the Muertos in. They beheaded the guys, put it on YouTube. You cross the cartels, you're a dead man. Usually after being tortured and sliced up like a side of beef. Los Muertos don't just kill people—they send messages."
"Where can I find Benito? I need to talk to him."
"Benito's not going to talk to you."
"Never know till you try."
"Except trying might get you a bullet in your head." Hank snorted. "Look, Scott, I don't know how you do things in Dallas, but you don't just drive over to Market Street and talk to Benito Estrada. You either wear a badge or you go in shooting. Preferably both. Scott, Benito's got thugs bigger than buses."
"I've got Louis."
TWENTY-FIVE
"Just like in the book, Mr. Fenney," Louis said. "Ain't no country for old men."
Benito Estrada maintained offices in a renovated three-story historical structure situated between a yoga studio and the Black Pearl Oyster Bar on Market Street in the trendy part of downtown Galveston. It had the appearance of a real-estate office, except for the two thick-bodied Latinos standing guard out front under a red awning like unhappy doormen. Hank was right: Benito's thugs were big. Their loose Mexican wedding shirts bulged at the waist, obviously concealing handguns. They were armed and dangerous and perfectly within the law in Texas. As long as their guns were concealed, they were legal.
"Working for the cartel," Carlos said, "you ain't gonna grow old."
Scott had sent Bobby and Karen back to the beach house. They were soon to be parents, and they were the girls' guardians under A. Scott Fenney's Last Will and Testament. They didn't need to be in the line of fire. Scott had driven past the building then stopped a half block down the street to plot out a strategy. No strategy had occurred to him when Carlos said, "I'll handle this, boss. These are my people."
Carlos stepped smartly down the sidewalk, clad in black leather from head to foot, past a silver Maserati parked along the curb and over to the thugs. He gave them a hearty smile, stuck his hand out, and said, "Buenos días, amigos."
"Fuck off," the taller thug said.
Carlos recoiled and withdrew his hand. The smiled dropped from his face, and his shoulders slumped. He looked like a kid who had been dissed on the playground. He beat a retreat back to Scott and Louis, who patted him on the shoulder.
