Accused

by Mark Gimenez

  "Must not know they're your people."

  Carlos exhaled and shook his head as if faced with an imponderable mystery.

  "Folks these days, they just can't be friendly. Why is that?"

  "We live in a conflicted time," Louis said. "Folks struggling to find meaning in their lives. When they don't, their frustrations manifest in hostility toward their fellow man."

  "You really think that's it, with those guys?"

  Louis stared at the thugs. "I think those guys are assholes need to be stuffed down a concrete culvert."

  Louis said it as if he had some experience with that sort of thing. Scott was about to take his chances with the thugs when a familiar unmarked sedan pulled up to the curb next to them. Hank Kowalski got out. His big gun was prominently displayed on his hip.

  "Rex thought maybe I should drop by."

  "Thanks, Hank. But let me take a shot at these guys first. So to speak."

  Scott walked over to the thugs and held his business card out in front of him like a white flag of surrender—but he was relieved to hear the others' footsteps behind him.

  "I'm Scott Fenney. Is Mr. Estrada available?"

  "No, he ain't available," the shorter thug said.

  "Would you mind checking? It's about Trey Rawlins. I'm a lawyer representing Rebecca Fenney."

  The thugs glanced at each other then at Hank; the taller one said, "Wait here." He took Scott's card and went inside. The other thug maintained his position in front of the door. A few minutes later, the taller one returned and gestured at Scott.

  "Benito will see you."

  They all took a step toward the door.

  "Only the lawyer."

  Scott turned to the others. "I'll be okay. Wait here."

  "Mr. Fenney," Louis said, "if you want, I could break both their necks."

  The thugs' eyes got wide. Hank chuckled.

  "No, Louis, just be cool."

  Scott followed the taller thug inside and to the elevators.

  "Hands up."

  Scott put his hands in the air. The thug patted him down then said, "Third floor."

  Scott stepped inside the elevator and punched the button for the third floor. The elevator made a smooth journey up two levels then the doors opened on a young, handsome, meticulously groomed Latino man dressed in a pink Polo shirt that hung like silk, white creased shorts, and huaraches. His black hair was smoothed back, and his goatee was expertly trimmed. His cologne smelled expensive. He offered a bright smile and an open hand to Scott. He was unarmed.

  "Mr. Fenney, I am Benito Estrada. It is an honor to meet you."

  Scott shook Benito's hand. "Why?"

  "The hooker's case, up in Dallas. Took cojones to go on national TV and call a U.S. senator a criminal … just like it took cojones to walk up to mis amigos downstairs and say you want to see Benito Estrada. I like that."

  "Then you'll really like this: Did you kill Trey Rawlins?"

  Benito chuckled. "Perhaps you would like something to drink, Mr. Fenney? Spring water, herbal tea, espresso—I have Starbucks?"

  "No, thanks. And call me Scott."

  "And I am Benito. Please, come in."

  The elevator was at one end of an office that occupied the entire third floor of the building. A large desk stood along one wall and above the desk was a bank of closed-circuit TVs showing the street scene around the building. On one screen were Hank, Carlos, and Louis—mostly Louis.

  "Now that is a bodyguard," Benito said.

  A sitting area with a leather couch and chairs stretched along one wall of windows and a wet bar along the third wall with a flat-screen TV mounted above. It reminded Scott of Nick Madden's office, absent the game tables. And Nick and Benito had a mutual client.

  "Why have you come to me?" Benito asked.

  "Trey's last phone conversation was with you."

  "Ah."

  "Why'd you agree to see me?"

  Benito smiled. "Never know when I might need a good defense lawyer."

  "I don't represent drug dealers. I have kids."

  "I do not sell to kids. I am a businessman, selling the people what they want."

  "They may want it, but they don't need it."

  "No different than the State of Texas selling lottery tickets to poor people."

  "The lottery is legal. Your business isn't."

  "Just because the state made theirs legal. And give it a few years, people are sick of funding the war on drugs. They want to spend those billions on health care. They do not care if someone snorts coke or shoots heroin or if their drug habit kills thousands of Mexicans each year. Eighteen metric tons of heroin cross the border each year, five hundred tons of cocaine, fifteen thousand tons of marijuana, God knows how much meth—gringos want their drugs and they are going to get them, from someone. Might as well be me. And no, I did not kill Trey."

  "Will you take a polygraph?"

  "They indicted your wife for his murder, not me."

  "Did Trey buy cocaine from you?"

  "Let us sit."

  Benito escorted Scott to the sitting area. He sat on the couch facing the window; Benito sat in a chair facing Scott and crossed his legs. He gestured at the window behind him.

  "Across the street, the Feds have cameras on my front door twenty-four/seven. I feel like a Hollywood movie star, and they are my paparazzi."

  "How long did you know Trey?"

  "We grew up together. He lived in the nice part of town, the south side near the beach. I lived in the housing projects on the north side, near the docks. I now live on the beach, and the projects, they are gone, washed away by Ike. As are the Latinos and the blacks. They all moved to the mainland, no place to live here. The Anglos, like your friend Senator Armstrong, they hope the Latinos and blacks will stay gone from the Island. They think it will be good for business, if the rich tourists do not see us. BOIs have always treated us like IBCs, like we do not belong on the Island, even if we too were born here. But Trey, he did not treat me that way. He treated me like a human being. He came to my apartment, dated my sister, took her to the prom, gave her the corsage of white carnations as if she were the Anglo prom queen. We were like brothers."

  "How'd you get into this business?" Scott said.

  "Went to Harvard, minority scholarship. No jobs on Wall Street, credit crunch and all, so I came back to the Island. But the only jobs for a minority—even with a Harvard degree—are waiting tables for tourists. When this position came open a couple years ago—"

  "How?"

  Benito sighed. "My predecessor, he cooked the books."

  "What happened to him?"

  "I did not ask."

  "But you sold to Trey?"

  "Yes."

  "A lot?"

  "On a regular basis."

  "Did he come here?"

  "No. He knew about the surveillance, they would spot that black Bentley or that BMW bike, know it was him. He was high-profile here on the Island. It would not do his career any good to be seen on TV entering my office, so he required a more discreet arrangement. I made deliveries personally, to his house."

  "You do that for a lot of your customers?"

  "Only two. Now only one."

  "So you've been in his house?"

  "Of course."

  "Have you ever been arrested?"

  "Twice. Charges were dismissed."

  "But you were fingerprinted?"

  "Yes."

  Benito's prints were in the system, which meant his prints did not match the unidentified prints at the crime scene.

  "You seem to operate without much interference from the law."

  Benito smiled. "Let us just say that no one wants me on the witness stand, telling the world who my customers are."

  "Let's stick with one customer. How'd you make the deliveries to Trey's house?"

  "He gave me a key to the garage door. I put the product in the dumb waiter, pushed the up button for the fourth floor. His office."

  "How often did you make deliveri
es?"

  "Weekly."

  "When?"

  Benito shrugged. "Whenever."

  "During the day?"

  "Yes."

  "And how did he pay you?"

  "When I returned, the money would be waiting for me."

  "In the dumb waiter?"

  "In the Hummer."

  "So you had no problems with Trey?"

  "I did not say that."

  "What was the problem?"

  "Trey owed me five hundred thousand dollars."

  "That's a lot of cocaine."

  "It is very high quality. He wanted only the best. And I assumed he shared with your wife."

  "So why didn't he pay? He was rich."

  "He did not inform me when he went on tour, so I made my weekly deliveries. He would be gone two, three, sometimes four weeks at a time. I would put each week's delivery in the dumb waiter, with the prior deliveries. He would collect the deliveries when he returned, and he always paid me in full. This past April, he went on tour again—I know, because I saw him on TV, he missed a very short putt and lost—but this time the dumb waiter was empty every week. And there was no money in the Hummer. So I assumed he had someone collect it for him, send it to him on tour."

  Benito exhaled heavily.

  "I trusted Trey. Like a brother. So one day he called me, said he had been out of town for six weeks, said he needed a delivery. I said he must first pay what he owed, five hundred thousand. He said he did not receive the deliveries. I explained how I had made the deliveries, how the dumb waiter was empty each week …"

  Benito shook his head; he seemed genuinely upset.

  "He accused me of cheating him."

  "Did you?"

  "No. I made the deliveries."

  "So what happened to the cocaine?"

  "I do not know. But he should have stopped delivery while he was gone, like you do with your newspaper. Risk of loss passes to the buyer upon delivery. That is the law."

  "What, you were going to sue him?"

  "We do not file lawsuits."

  "You kill."

  "I don't."

  "The Muertos do. Did they know Trey owed you?"

  Benito nodded. "I am a distributor. They handle collections."

  "Benito, why are you telling me all this?"

  He stroked his goatee and sighed. "Because I am afraid that I failed my brother. The last few months, Trey was not the same person I knew. At first, I thought it must be the cocaine, he was using more and more. But now I think not. I think there was more going on."

  "What?"

  "I do not know. But he seemed very stressed. And afraid. He bought guns."

  "Maybe to protect himself from the Muertos."

  "Maybe. Maybe someone else. Scott, I do not want your wife to go to prison for a crime she did not commit."

  "You think she's innocent?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "You are defending her—why do you think she is innocent?" Benito sat back. "A black hooker accused of murdering a senator's son and now your ex-wife accused of murdering a pro golfer—why do you take on such causes? For the money?"

  "What money?"

  "For the fame?"

  "I don't want fame."

  "Then why do you do it?"

  Scott sighed. "I'm not sure."

  "And do you think you will be able to prove that she is innocent? Your wife?"

  "She's innocent until proven guilty."

  "Scott, I am Latino. I know the reality of the law."

  "You spoke to Trey on the phone the night he was killed?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you talk about his debt?"

  "Yes. I was trying to save his life."

  "How?"

  "To get him to pay what he owed, so the cartel did not send the Muertos after him. He was my friend, Scott. I did not want to see him harmed."

  "Did they send in the Muertos?"

  "Perhaps. But I do not think so."

  "Why not?"

  "Because she is still alive. Your wife."

  TWENTY-SIX

  "God, that jail is awful."

  Thirty minutes after Scott had bailed Rebecca out, she was still trembling.

  "At least I don't have to wear that ankle bracelet."

  "Don't jump bail, Rebecca, or I'll lose the house."

  Scott had pledged his house to secure her bond and release from custody.

  They had driven from the jail to the beach and were now walking along the seawall. Joggers ran past, kids rolled by on bikes, and parents pushed strollers with young children aboard. The Island street scene was nice, and it was decidedly not Dallas. There were no Neiman Marcus mothers, no Armani dads, no Jacadi Paris girls, and no Hugo Boss boys. There were tank tops and cargo shorts and neon flip-flops, beach bums and surfers, and snow cone and cupcake trailers. Galveston was a Wal-Mart town, the poor man's Riviera. But not for long, if the senator had his way.

  "Scott, you know how you said prisons are full of innocent people?"

  He nodded.

  "If I'm convicted, what happens?"

  "I'll appeal, try to get the conviction overturned."

  "How long does that take?"

  "Two or three years."

  "Do I get to live out here? While you appeal?"

  "No. You go to prison."

  "But what if they realize I'm innocent? What happens then?"

  "They release you and say, 'Sorry. Have a nice life.' "

  But Scott was not worried about that happening because Rebecca Fenney would not survive two or three years in prison. She might be a survivor in society, but not when taken out of society. She would die in prison.

  She pondered that prospect for another block then said, "Ike did that."

  They stood at 25th Street in front of the famous Flagship Hotel, a seven-story structure sitting atop a pier extending 1,130 feet into the Gulf—or what was left of the Flagship. Barricades blocked off access to the pier because the concrete entrance ramp was missing; one wrong step and you'd be lying on the beach seventeen feet below. The hotel façade had broken off in numerous places, exposing the interior of the rooms. Drapes flapped in the breeze. The Flagship was a derelict now.

  "They're going to demolish it," she said, "make it an amusement pier with a Ferris wheel and a carousel … and a casino if the state legalizes gambling. At least that's the rumor."

  "Sin City."

  "Sin sells."

  "Bring back gambling, prostitution, and drugs to the Island."

  "It's already here."

  "Rebecca … the toxicology reports came back."

  Her shoulders sagged. She sat on a concrete bench and stared blankly out to sea. Scott sat next to her.

  "Jesus, Rebecca … cocaine? Why?"

  "I only did it a few times."

  Two years before, her affair with the assistant golf pro at the club had stunned Scott like a blow to the head—he still had a hard time believing she had had sex with Trey during the day then had come home to her family that night—but the thought of his wife using cocaine seemed inconceivable. Shopping till she dropped, he knew that Rebecca Fenney. But snorting cocaine through a straw? That was not the Rebecca he knew. How could she do it? How could anyone do it? How many people strolling the seawall that fine day did it? If Benito's figures were correct—he said the cartels sent five hundred metric tons of cocaine into the U.S. annually—a lot of these people did it. But none of them were standing trial for murder in thirty-five days.

  "You know Benito Estrada?"

  "No."

  "I do. I just met him, before I bailed you out. He sold cocaine to Trey. A lot."

  She nodded. "I was really worried about it. He started about six months ago, at least that's when I found out about it. At first he said it was to celebrate a great round, then to get over a bad round, then after every round. He said he had it under control, but the last few months, it was every day."

  "He owed Benito five hundred thousand dollars."

  "For cocaine
?"

  Scott nodded. "Benito called him that night, tried to convince him to pay, said he didn't want Trey to get hurt, by the Muertos."

  "Who are they?"

  "The cartel's hit men."

  "Why didn't Trey pay him? He had the money."

  "He thought Benito had cheated him."

  "You think they killed Trey? Those Muertos?"

  "I don't know. Was he stressed out, before his death?"

  "No. He won the Challenge the week before."

  "Why'd he buy guns?"

  She shrugged. "Crime on the Island. So he started carrying a gun in the car."

  "Why didn't you tell me, Rebecca?"

  "That he carried a gun?"

  "That you used cocaine."

  "I didn't want Boo to know."

  "It'll come out at trial … and it won't be good when it does."

  They stood and walked again, but Scott did not hold her hand this time.

  Eighteen miles down the beach, Louis walked over to where Carlos was working on two surfboards laid out on the sand in the shade of the house.

  "What's a six-letter word for 'entertain at bedtime'?"

  "Hooker."

  Louis grunted. "Fits." He filled in the blanks on the crossword puzzle then said, "What are you doing?"

  "Cleaning these boards. Found them under the house, pulled them out for us."

  "What do you mean, us?"

  "Me and you, man—we're gonna learn to surf this summer. Boo wants to learn, but the boss said no."

  "Why?"

  "Guess he figures she might drown."

  "No. Why do you think I want to learn to surf?"

  " 'Cause we're at the beach."

  "I saw that Jaws movie. I figure there's sharks out in that water."

  "None big enough to eat you."

  "That Jaws shark ate a boat. Reckon they'd be big enough to take a bite out of me." Louis looked out to sea for a time. "One thing I've learned, Carlos, there's always someone bigger and meaner."

  Carlos chuckled. "Benito's men?"

  "That could've turned ugly."

  "Testosterone will do that."

  "Mean will do it, too."

  "Los Muertos are mean. Think they killed that white boy?"

  "They killed a black boy, down in the projects. Figured he was safe down there, that Mexicans wouldn't come into South Dallas. But they did. Armed like the infantry, a dozen of 'em. They found him, chased him down, shot him to pieces. Like in a movie. You know how much he owed? Ten thousand."