by Mark Gimenez
"Trey Rawlins owed them five hundred thousand."
"Not no more he don't."
"The cocaine," Karen said. "Scott, that's bad evidence. How can we put Rebecca on the stand now?"
"We can't."
"Which makes conviction more likely," Bobby said.
"What'll happen to Boo then?" Karen said.
They were on the back deck. Rebecca and Boo were down on the beach.
"Scott, I'm not one to butt into your personal affairs—"
Bobby laughed. "Since when?"
"I'm sorry," Karen said. "Never mind."
"Karen," Scott said, "you've been the girls' mother for the last two years. We wouldn't have made it without you, okay? You've earned the right to butt in. What's on your mind?"
She gestured down at Boo and Rebecca. "They seem to be getting close again."
"She's her mother."
"Biological only. Scott, I've been carrying this baby for almost eight months now. There's no way I'll ever leave this child. How could she?"
"Karen, failure is not an option in Highland Park. It can be a tough place—"
"Life is tough. Scott, defending her is one thing, but don't make excuses for her. She abandoned her child. There's no excuse for that. Would you ever leave Boo or Pajamae?"
"No."
"Okay. She shouldn't have left Boo."
"Agreed."
"They were apart for two years, now they're back together for what, two months when the trial's over. What if she's convicted and they're apart again—for five to life? That would devastate Boo."
"I couldn't just leave her in Dallas. She wouldn't have stood for that."
"No, she wouldn't. But it's going to hurt her badly—if Rebecca's convicted."
Scott stared at his daughter and her mother.
"Then we can't let that happen."
Renée Ramirez presented another "Murder on the Beach" report on the ten o'clock news that night. She opened with footage from the arraignment, Rebecca in her jail jumpsuit pleading "not guilty" and Renée peppering Scott with questions in the corridor outside the courtroom ending with "Do you still love your wife?" and Scott's stunned expression. Then Renée went live from Galveston.
"Judge Shelby Morgan set the trial date for July twentieth and bail at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I interviewed Terri Rawlins after the hearing."
Terri appeared on the screen and said, "Now she can sit in jail where she belongs."
Back to Renée: "But Rebecca Fenney is not in jail tonight. Her ex-husband and lawyer, A. Scott Fenney, bonded her out by pledging his Highland Park house. She is now staying with him and his family in a rented beach house until the trial. I've heard about carrying a torch for an old love, but this guy is taking it a bit far." Renée smiled and shook her head. "Confidential sources at the courthouse have confirmed that the toxicology results showed significant levels of cocaine in Trey Rawlins' blood at the time of his death, and also in Rebecca Fenney's blood that same night."
"Damnit!" Scott pointed at the TV. "Who's leaking this stuff?"
"That detective," Bobby said.
Back on the screen: "Earlier today I interviewed Louise, a prostitute who spent three nights in the same cell with Rebecca Fenney."
A hard-looking female face filled the screen. Louise was not a high-priced hooker. She worked the street corners on the north side of Galveston. She said, "Oh, she bad. I seen it in her eyes. She killed that white boy. She guilty as sin."
TWENTY-SEVEN
"Pick and roll, Mr. Fenney," Pajamae whispered.
They were playing basketball on the court next to the house. Three on three: Pajamae, Boo, and Scott versus Bobby, Carlos, and Louis. Sitting in lawn chairs in the shade of the house were the fans: Rebecca, Karen, Consuela, and Maria. Two brown pelicans perched on the rooftop seemed amused. Pajamae was dribbling in place, and Bobby was guarding her. Scott circled the court then came up from behind and took a position right next to Bobby—the "pick"—blocking his path to Pajamae; she darted past Bobby, and Scott pivoted off his pick—the "roll"—and went hard to the basket looking back for Pajamae's bounce pass and—
"Unnnhh."
—collapsed to the concrete. He had rolled right into Louis with a good head of steam; running into a brick wall would have been a more pleasant experience. He first heard Rebecca's voice—"You okay, Scott?"—and then Karen's laughter and her voice—"I peed in my diaper. Maria, you need a clean diaper, too?"
It was the following Sunday, Father's Day, and this father was now stretched out flat on his back on the warm surface staring up at Louis's broad face and the blue sky and white seagulls beyond. Boo's frantic face appeared above him and she cried out, "Oh, my God—is he breathing?"
She dropped to her knees next to him and gently slapped his face.
"A. Scott, speak to me!"
She put her ear to his chest then came up with her arms spread to the heavens.
"He's alive!"
"I'm fine, Boo."
"Oh."
More faces came into view—the amused faces of Bobby and Carlos and finally the frowning face of Pajamae Jones-Fenney. She punched her hips with her fists.
"Damn, Mr. Fenney, can't you run a pick and roll?"
"No. I can't. Not against Louis. And don't cuss."
"Well, you wanna be my daddy, you gonna have to man up on a B-ball court. You ever see homies playin' hoops in the 'hood? You playin' street ball now, mista."
"Pajamae, it's not the NBA finals."
But she had already returned to the game. "Yo, my man." She shot the ball over to Carlos. "Your ball out, bro. We two down." Scott heard her muttering to herself. "Black girl got a white man for a daddy, how she gonna learn basketball good enough to get a college scholarship, tell me that?"
Louis extended a big hand to Scott. He took it, and Louis lifted him to his feet like he was air.
"You okay, Mr. Fenney?"
Scott nodded, but he wasn't sure.
"Boss," Carlos said, "we'll trade Mr. Herrin for Pajamae."
"Thanks a lot, Carlos," Bobby said.
"No offense, Mr. Herrin, but you ain't got no shot."
"I got you out of jail six times."
"That's true. Never mind."
Carlos passed the ball to Bobby, who air-balled a ten-footer, which evoked a "see what I mean" expression from Carlos. Scott grabbed the rebound and passed it over to Pajamae. She faced off Carlos. He spread his legs wide and got down low.
"Come on, girlie, show me what you got?"
Pajamae smiled, made a quick fake right, then passed the ball through Carlos's open legs, picked up the ball behind him, and nailed a banker over Louis.
"That's what I got, homeboy."
"Homeboy? I'm Mexican."
"Pajamae," Scott said, "your mother insisted you use correct English, and you do, except when you're on a basketball court. Then you street talk. What's up with that?"
"Oh. I'm being authentic."
"Authentic?"
"Unh-huh. See, black folks street talk when they play hoops, it's part of the culture. So if I'm gonna be a black basketball star when I grow up, I've got to sound authentic, like I came from the streets. Shoe sponsors love that kind of life story."
It actually sounded reasonable.
"And I'll have to get tattoos."
"Why?"
"You ever see an NBA player without tattoos?"
Boo joined them. "If she gets a tattoo, I'm getting my ears pierced."
"She's not getting a tattoo and you're not getting holes in your ears."
"Shit."
"Don't cuss."
Being a father wasn't easy, on or off a basketball court. Texting, sexting, sex, drugs, cable, profanity, porn, tattoos, NBA, NFL, MLB—there were just too many bad influences in kids' lives these days. But a good parent fought the fight every day. As Scott Fenney had and would. He would get these two girls through middle school, high school, and college, hopefully without any permanent damage or tattoos. He
would be there for them when they were tempted or taunted or teased. He would answer their questions about sex honestly. And he would never use drugs.
He would be their father.
"Happy Father's Day, Scott."
Two hours later, Rebecca brought him a bowl of ice cream out on the deck. She sat and watched the waves wash ashore. Just beyond the surf, a guy and a girl cut through the water on a jet ski, moving fast. The girl screamed with either delight or fear.
"Those are fun," Rebecca said. After the jet ski was gone, she said, "Do you still have fun, Scott?"
"Sure."
"But you're broke and you don't have anyone."
"I have fun with the girls."
"Do you have the kind of fun a man needs?"
"I have father fun."
"Is that enough?"
"It may have to be."
"It doesn't have to be, Scott. You can have man fun with me again."
The girls needed a mother, and he needed a woman. Could Rebecca be a mother to Boo again … and to Pajamae? Could she be his wife again? Could they all go back to the way they were, as if the last two years had never happened? As if she had not run off with the golf pro, as if he were not now dead, as if she had not been accused of his murder, as if she had not used cocaine? How could she be a good mother if she were a bad influence? Would that work? Could it ever be the same? Could they have fun again?
And when they went to bed, would Trey lie down with them?
"Pete still winning?" Scott asked.
"He's up by one, on the fourteenth hole."
"Unbelievable. Better eat this inside, see if he can finish it off."
They went inside and found everyone lounging on the couch and chairs and eating cake and ice cream and the girls rolling on the floor laughing hysterically.
"What's so funny?" Scott asked.
"Cialis commercial," Karen said. "They mentioned the possible side effects, you know, 'seek immediate medical help for an erection lasting more than four hours.' That tickled the girls."
"That'd damn sure tickle me," Carlos said. "But I wouldn't call no doctor. I'd throw a party." He gestured at the TV. "What I don't get is, that Cialis commercial always shows the man and woman in separate bathtubs. How can you do it like that?"
"Oh," Bobby said, "what you do is—"
"Bobby!" Karen said. "The girls."
"Oh." To Carlos: "Later."
"When those commercials come on," Scott said, "change the channel."
"They're on every channel," Karen said.
"What's a four-letter word for 'Turkey neighbor'?" Louis said.
"Peas," Carlos said.
"Iran," Bobby said.
"I ain't never had no turkey and iran for Thanksgiving."
"They're countries—Turkey and Iran."
"Oh."
Scott plopped onto the sofa and watched the U.S. Open, which featured pudgy white boys and Tiger playing golf on narrow fairways and fast greens, glamour shots of WAGs in the gallery, and commercials targeting WM squared: fast cars, long drivers, and drugs for prostates that have enlarged and penises that won't. Pete Puckett resorted to his trusty one-iron and hit every fairway and green the final round. On the eighteenth hole, he tapped in a short putt to win.
Pete Puckett had won the U.S. Open.
It was his first win in over twenty years, and hands-down the sports shocker of the year. Pete high-fived Goose then walked off the green and wrapped his arms around his young daughter and lifted her into the air. The TV crew stuck cameras in their faces as they cried together, and the microphones caught Pete saying, "I wish your mama was here." Nick Madden stood next to them. When Pete released Billie Jean, Nick hugged him like a boy hugging his grandpa. After he signed his scorecard, Pete accepted a check for $1.35 million and the silver trophy then stepped to a microphone set up on the green.
"I dreamed of this day for twenty-six years out here on tour. And now, for that dream to come true … I just wish my wife could be here." He hefted the trophy high and gazed into the sky. "Dottie Lynn, this is for you."
He put his arm around his daughter. Tears streamed down Billie Jean's face, but Scott couldn't help wondering if some of her tears were for Trey Rawlins.
Holding the U.S. Open trophy aloft, Pete Puckett didn't look like a killer—but a father would kill to protect his child. A twenty-eight-year-old man had seduced his seventeen-year-old daughter. Pete had learned of the affair and had threatened to kill Trey if he didn't stay away from Billie Jean. He had done what any father would do. He had tried to protect his daughter.
Had he killed for his daughter?
The law allowed network TV to show commercials for erectile dysfunction cures and seventeen-year-old children to have sex, but fathers didn't. What would Scott do to a man who lured Boo or Pajamae into sex at seventeen? It frightened him to think what he might do … what he could do. What any man could do. What a father would do. That dark side of a man resided in every father. We suppress it and control it and deny it—but it's always there. Waiting. For when it was needed. When a father needed to be a man … in the worst way a man could be.
Had Trey Rawlins brought out the worst in Pete Puckett?
"Louis, if Mr. Fenney marries Miz Fenney again, Boo'll have her family back together. They won't want a little black girl in the way."
"Mr. Fenney, he adopted you. You ain't no little black girl. You're his girl."
"You think it's okay for a white man to be my daddy? Even if he can't play basketball?"
"I think you're blessed to have any man love you as much as Mr. Fenney does and want to be your daddy. Ain't no color to love."
"But my mama's dead."
"Your mama was gonna die sooner than later, that's just the way it was for her. But you could've ended up with no one instead of Boo and Mr. Fenney."
"I'd still have you."
"That's a fact, but Mr. Fenney, he knows how to be a daddy. I don't."
"But I already had a daddy, so how can Mr. Fenney be my daddy?"
"You already had a daddy?"
"Unh-huh."
"So what'd he look like?"
"I don't know."
"He ever play with you?"
"No."
"Live with you?"
"No."
"Take care of you?"
"No."
"Love you?"
"No."
"Then you ain't never had no daddy, girl. Till Mr. Fenney."
"But he's Boo's daddy. Don't seem right, me taking some of his love from her."
"It don't work that way. A man's love expands to meet the demands."
"Huh?"
"You ain't taking love from Boo, you adding love to Mr. Fenney. His heart is like a tree—it grew bigger for you."
"Huh?"
Louis put his hands on his hips like he did when he got annoyed.
"He's got twice as much love now that you're in his life."
"Oh."
"Pajamae!"
She looked over to Mr. Fenney and Miss Fenney and Boo playing in the surf. Mr. Fenney was waving her over. Louis nudged her.
"Go on over to your father, girl."
What was he doing here?
Had he made a mistake when he agreed to represent Rebecca? He had no doubt there was a good explanation for her fingerprints being on the murder weapon, but there was no good explanation for her using cocaine. How would he explain that to the jury? Juries don't like that kind of evidence in a murder case. They like a clean and sober defendant—and no direct evidence tying the defendant to the crime—in order to acquit. They have to believe beyond all reasonable doubt that the defendant is innocent. An American jury's greatest fear is not convicting an innocent person but acquitting a guilty person. Being ridiculed in the press for abdicating their responsibility—their duty—to put people in prison. Why would the police have arrested her and the D.A. have charged her and the grand jury have indicted her if she weren't guilty? A presumption of guilt burdens every juror's mind when he o
r she takes a seat in the jury box on the first day of trial—which was now only twenty-nine days away. Would he be able to overcome that presumption and prove his ex-wife innocent? Would he be able to prove that Pete Puckett—or perhaps the Muertos—had killed Trey Rawlins? Or had A. Scott Fenney taken on the biggest lost cause of his career? And sacrificed his career? Again.
He realized he was staring at Rebecca and Boo was standing next to him. He looked down at her. Her eyes went from him to Rebecca and back to him. She grinned.
"Are you having a Cialis moment?"
Two hours later, the sun was low, the girls were inside, Miss Fenney was doing her yoga on the beach, and Carlos had talked Louis into going out on the surfboards.
"Miss Fenney, she's a fine-looking woman. And flexible."
"Don't go there, Carlos."
They had paddled out—way out. Louis and Carlos were bobbing on surfboards in the Gulf of Mexico, Carlos looking like he should be the lifeguard at a maximum security prison pool with his black hair slicked back, his dark sunglasses, his tattoos on his muscular arms—and Louis feeling scared. He gazed around at the sea of brown water that surrounded him. It was vast and it was deep and it was filled with creatures that belonged in the water—unlike him. He was a three-hundred-thirty-pound black man who belonged on dry land.
"Louis, you think you ever gonna be a daddy?"
"I hope so. You?"
"Hell, I might already be one. We got machismo, we don't need no Viagra or Cialis."
"Figure you'll get married and have a normal family, like Mr. Fenney?"
Carlos laughed. "Normal?" He waved a hand at the beach. "Ain't nothing normal going on over there, the boss defending his ex-wife. That's abnormal. And no, I don't figure either one of us is ever gonna get married."
"You're handsome."
"Why, thank you, Louis, you're kind of cute yourself … in a big way."
"Why not? We're good men—a few priors maybe, but no violent crimes."
"No convictions."
"I stand corrected."
" 'Cause women, Louis, they don't want good men, they want rich men. And I don't figure on ever being rich. Hence, I ain't never gonna have a wife."
"Hence?"
"I heard the boss say it. Sounds good."
