Accused

by Mark Gimenez

  Louis nodded. "It does. So you're saying we're gonna be alone all our lives?"

  " 'Fraid so, bro."

  "Damn."

  "But think of the bright side."

  "What's that?"

  "You ever get a chance to cheat with a fine-looking woman like Miss Fenney, you can cheat without getting caught."

  "But it ain't cheating if you don't have a wife."

  "Exactly my point."

  "Your point don't make no sense."

  "My point is, you'll always be a free man."

  "And alone."

  "That, too."

  "You done with your point?"

  "Yep."

  "Okay. Now that you got me out here, what the hell am I supposed to do?"

  "Wait for a good wave, then lie down and paddle like the devil himself is after your ass. Once we get going, we just stand up on the board and ride that mother all the way to shore."

  "Just like that?"

  "Yep."

  "What if we fall off? Figure that could kill us?"

  Carlos laughed. "Hell, Louis, it ain't falling off that's gonna kill you—it's the sharks eating you."

  "Sharks? You see a shark?"

  Five hundred yards due north, Scott, Karen, and Bobby were on the back deck. Bobby said, "Tell me they're not really going to try that."

  They did. A big wave—for Galveston Beach—rose behind Carlos and Louis. They lay down on the boards and started paddling. When the wave was almost upon them, they squatted on the boards then … stood.

  "I'll be damned. They're surfing."

  They waved their arms wildly trying to maintain their balance on the boards, and they did—for about five seconds. Then the wave overcame them and sent them and their boards flying. They went under … and stayed under. Scott stood. Just when he was about to run down to the beach and play lifeguard, their boards surfaced, then Carlos popped up, followed by Louis. The waves rolled them ashore. They coughed sea water then struggled to their feet and looked at each other; then they smiled and high-fived. "Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" Carlos shouted.

  "They're nuts," Karen said.

  "Hank Herrin," Bobby said.

  Karen stared at him with an incredulous expression. "And you are too if you think I'm naming our son Hank."

  "I'm seeing a home run hitter."

  "I'm seeing a guy with tattoos wearing a wife-beater T-shirt and spitting tobacco juice out the window of his pickup truck."

  Bobby shrugged then turned to Scott. "I checked in with the answering service. The network morning shows called. They all want an interview with you and the Guilty Groupie."

  "That's not gonna happen." Scott sat back down. "Okay, guys, we're on the clock. Four weeks till trial. Where do we stand?"

  "Our strategy," Bobby said, "is to (a), explain why her prints are on the murder weapon, and (b), find out who killed Trey. Anything on (a)?"

  "No. What about (b)?"

  "The suspect list keeps getting longer," Karen said. She tapped on her laptop. "So far we have the construction workers, Goose, Brett McBride, Donnie Parker, Vic Hager, Pete Puckett, and Benito Estrada and the Muertos."

  "Brett, Donnie, and Vic have alibis for that night, but anyone with a motive stays on the list. And I don't rate the construction workers very high, but I asked Carlos to go back to work there, see if he can get some information about the cocaine … if they stole it. Which would explain why Trey thought Benito cheated him."

  "So that leaves Goose, Pete, and Benito and the Muertos."

  "Goose's prints didn't match the ones on the kitchen counter."

  "We need Pete's prints."

  "I'll get them."

  "So the prime suspects are the pro golfer who just won the U.S. Open, a Mexican drug cartel, and your ex-wife." Bobby unwrapped a piece of gum and popped it into his mouth. "Should've waited until after this case to quit smoking."

  "I completed the asset searches on Trey and Rebecca," Karen said. "No surprises. Rebecca's got nothing except the Corvette. I got the subpoenas to Hank, he served them on Facebook and the cell phone carrier."

  "Anything on the sister?" Bobby asked.

  "No," Scott said. "But her lawyer, Melvyn Burke, he knows something."

  "What?"

  "I don't know. Terri won't waive the attorney-client privilege." To Karen: "What about the judge?"

  "UT undergrad, dean's list, cheerleader. UT law school, graduated with honors. Private practice for ten years, then elected judge five years ago. No big cases."

  "Until now. Pretrial motions?"

  "I'm going to file a motion to exclude the crime scene photos as inflammatory. The D.A.'ll still get some in."

  "Can we exclude evidence found at the house?"

  "She called nine-one-one, invited them in, consented to a search. Even if she hadn't, it wasn't her house. And it was a crime scene, so that room was open to a search. But I'll still file a motion to suppress."

  "What about the tox report? Did they have probable cause to draw her blood?"

  "Probably not. I'll file a motion to exclude that, too."

  There was an awkward moment of silence, then Scott said, "She's not an addict."

  Scott gazed at Rebecca on the beach with the girls. She seemed like a girl herself, skipping through the surf, as if she were not soon to stand trial for murder.

  "Has the possibility of life in prison registered yet?" Karen said.

  Scott gestured down at the beach. "One day she's acting happy, talking about us getting back together … the next day she's on suicide watch. I don't get her."

  "It's the cocaine," Bobby said.

  "What cocaine?"

  "Scotty, I represented users. I know the symptoms. Cycles of depression and euphoria, that's a cocaine user. She's using."

  Scott shook his head. "She only used it a few times with Trey. She'd never use it around Boo. No way."

  "Way." Bobby pointed to the beach. "Go down there and do a blood draw, I guarantee a tox screen would come back positive for cocaine."

  "Where would she get it from? And how would she pay for it?"

  "Scotty, you staying objective? About her?"

  Think like a lawyer, not like a man.

  "I found a polygraph guy," Karen said. "On Bolivar Peninsula, retired FBI. Is she willing to do it?"

  Scott nodded.

  "Are you worried?"

  "She's not."

  "It's the cocaine," Bobby said.

  "Crack dealers," Pajamae said, "they killed this man down in the projects one day. Just walked up and shot him dead, right in front of everyone."

  "Shit," Boo said. "I mean, damn. I mean, wow."

  Scott had come upstairs to say goodnight to the girls. "Fear. They wanted to scare you."

  "Well, Mr. Fenney, it worked."

  "Why'd they kill the man?" Boo asked.

  "He owed them money."

  "Why didn't the dealers just hire a lawyer and sue him?"

  "Boo, folks in the projects don't sue each other. Lawsuits are for white folks who don't have guns."

  Boo nodded, as if Pajamae's statement made perfect sense.

  "Nothing exciting like that ever happens in Highland Park. It's so boring."

  "What do folks in Highland Park do for excitement?"

  "Shop at Neiman Marcus mostly."

  "Ain't no Neiman or Marcus in South Dallas."

  "So what did you do for excitement down in the projects?"

  "Walk outside."

  Boo nodded then turned to Scott. "I saw something on TV this morning about Mother's boyfriend."

  "Boo, I told you, when something about the case comes on, change the channel. There's a lot of stuff you don't need to know yet. "

  "Stuff like her boyfriend used drugs?"

  "Yes, stuff like that."

  She hesitated, and Scott knew what her next question would be. She had to ask.

  "Did mother use drugs, too?"

  Before Rebecca had left them, whenever Boo had asked Scott tough q
uestions like that, he had always answered like a lawyer: he had fudged the truth. But when he became her only parent, he had started answering her like a father instead. And so he answered her now. He lied.

  "No."

  An eleven-year-old girl needed to know the truth about sex but not that truth about her mother.

  "Good." She seemed relieved. "So, if Mother doesn't go to that prison, is she coming home with us?"

  "Do you want her back?"

  "Did you come down here to get her back?"

  "I came down here to defend your mother so she doesn't spend the rest of her life in prison for a crime she didn't commit."

  "But you want to understand why she left us?"

  "Yes."

  "Because you blame yourself?"

  "Yes."

  "Which is why you won't ask Ms. Dawson out?"

  "Yes."

  Boo nodded. "I don't understand her either. Mother is a complicated person. But you two wouldn't get married again unless we all decide?"

  "No. Never. We're a family. And a family makes decisions together."

  "Good. Oh, A. Scott, there was a segment this morning about statins. I really think you should be on one. You're thirty-eight now."

  "Boo, I know thirty-eight sounds really old to you, but it's not. I'm still a young man. I'm not going to die on you." He put a hand on each of their shoulders. "On either of you."

  "You'd better not," Boo said.

  Scott kissed them goodnight then went into his bedroom, which shared a bathroom with Carlos' and Louis's bedroom. They were downstairs watching TV, so he undressed and showered. He was still naked when he opened the door to his bedroom and saw Rebecca standing there. She too was naked. Incredibly naked. They stared at each other.

  "You look good, Scott."

  So did she.

  "Let's finish what we started on the beach," she said. "A little man fun for Father's Day."

  He wanted her. Desperately. But he resisted. Because he had to think like a lawyer and not lust like a man. Because she needed him as her lawyer more than he needed her as his lover. Because she couldn't be a bad influence and a good mother. So he turned, walked back into the bathroom, and shut the door; but he did think, That's an odd place for a tattoo.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  "It's official. Medical Examiner ruled it a homicide."

  The next morning, Galveston County Criminal District Attorney Rex Truitt handed the final autopsy report on Trey Rawlins across his desk to Scott. He passed it to Bobby. The Assistant D.A. sat in the corner like a kid in timeout.

  "No change to the cause of death," the D.A. said. "Sharp force injury. The knife killed Trey, not the cocaine."

  "Who told Renée about the cocaine?"

  "Detective Wilson denied it, but lots of people saw that tox report."

  "It's not right, Rex, for someone in your office—"

  "I don't know it's coming from my office, Scott."

  "It's coming from someone in law enforcement, and that's not right, leaking evidence to the press. That's depriving my client of a fair trial. Find your leak, Rex, and plug it, or I'm filing for a change of venue."

  "That won't make Shelby happy."

  "Keeping her happy isn't my job."

  Bobby, always mindful of Scott's blood pressure, diverted the conversation.

  "Rex, what about the fingerprints?"

  The D.A. had said the fingerprint results were back. He read from another report. "None of the prints you gave us matched the unidentified prints at the crime scene. But your 'TM'—comes up Teresa Daniels in the system—she was arrested for solicitation five years ago, in Nevada."

  "Figures."

  "The item marked 'NM,' Nicholas Madden in the system, he was arrested for DUI ten years ago, deferred adjudication."

  "Not surprised."

  "And one of the five 'CW' prints belongs to a Hector Garrido, fugitive from Mexico, wanted for murder. That's why I called you soon as I got this report. Where'd you get his prints?"

  "He's working on the judge's house, down the street from Trey's house."

  "You're kidding? A Mexican fugitive wanted for murder, working at an American judge's house?" The D.A. shook his head. "Tight border security. Well, we'll pick him up this morning."

  "Can you hold off till five?"

  "Why?"

  "Those Muertos might've killed Trey."

  "I thought Pete Puckett killed him? Or the caddie?"

  "I think Pete did, but the Muertos had a good motive, too."

  The D.A. hesitated before asking the question he did not want to ask.

  "And what motive was that?"

  "Trey owed Benito five hundred thousand dollars."

  The news knocked the D.A. back in his chair. He took a moment to gather himself.

  "Hank said you got in to see Benito. He tell you that?"

  Scott nodded. "Trey bought a lot of cocaine from him."

  The D.A.'s shoulders slumped. "When the tox screen came back, I figured him for recreational use, but five hundred grand—that's vocational." He blew out a breath. "It's like when A-Rod fessed up to steroids. I couldn't believe it. He always seemed so righteous, love of the game and all. I guess we want to believe someone's above all this crap." He shook his head. "But why didn't the Feds pick up Trey on their surveillance of Benito's place? It's twenty-four/seven."

  "Because he never went there. Benito delivered the cocaine to Trey's house, every week. Said Trey gave him a key to the garage, he put it in the dumb waiter."

  "Why the debt? Trey was rich."

  "Trey disputed some deliveries, accused Benito of cheating him. Benito said he made the deliveries."

  "Rex," the Assistant D.A. said, "we can probably keep Trey's drug use out at trial, unless they can show a direct connection to his death."

  "Unlikely it'll be suppressed, Ted, but that's not the point. Trey owed half a million bucks to a Mexican cartel, and that's a goddamned death wish."

  "And a motive for murder," Scott said.

  "Except her prints are on the murder weapon."

  "The Muertos are professionals. They wouldn't have left prints."

  "True. So what's that got to do with those construction workers?"

  "They might've stolen the cocaine. Carlos is working down there, to find out."

  "A man on the inside. Good thinking. Okay, we'll wait till five to pick up Hector, take that long to get the arrest warrant anyway. Tell your man to hightail it out of there before then, the cops are gonna round up everyone with brown skin till they figure out which one's Hector. I can't have a wanted murderer running around the Island."

  "Boo wanted me to ask you again, boss, about me teaching her to surf."

  "You want to take my eleven-year-old daughter out half a mile into the Gulf of Mexico on a surfboard?"

  "Uhh … maybe not." Carlos pointed down the street. "Here they come."

  In the Jetta parked at Trey's house, Scott and Carlos had a front-row seat as six Galveston Island Police Department cruisers arrived with lights flashing at the judge's house down the street and police bailed out with their guns drawn at the Mexican workers sitting on the porch drinking beer. One worker bolted and slid down the dune to the beach and ran to the water as if to escape via the Gulf of Mexico. The cops captured him at surf's edge.

  "That's Hector," Carlos said. "He's mean."

  "Mean enough to kill Trey?"

  "And Miss Fenney … only he didn't. Kill Miss Fenney. But they took the cocaine. Saw Benito stopping by once a week in that silver sports car, figured out what he was doing."

  "They know Benito?"

  "Everyone on the Island knows Benito, except law-abiding folks."

  "So how'd they get into the garage?"

  "Jimmied the lock. Found the dope in the little elevator."

  "What'd they do with it?"

  "Used some, sold some."

  "Why didn't they rob the place?"

  "Figured Trey would beef up security, if they stole other stuff. They wan
ted the cocaine more than they wanted his cars or his woman." Carlos shrugged. "That's what they said. They knew the party had ended when Trey died."

  They watched the shirtless, handcuffed workers being loaded into a police van. Busted at the beach on a fine summer day.

  "Guess that's the end of the show," Scott said.

  He started the engine.

  "Oh, boss, there's something else about the blonde girl and the big man they saw that day."

  Scott couldn't have sent Carlos with photos of Pete and Billie Jean Puckett—that would have blown his cover. But Scott was sure the big man was Pete and the blonde girl was Billie Jean. They had been in Trey Rawlins' house the day he was murdered. Once Scott got their prints, he would know for sure. And so would the D.A.

  "What?"

  "What they said happened. Said right after lunch, the blonde girl drives up in a black Mustang, goes inside, they don't see her for maybe four hours. Then a cab drives up and the big man gets out. This was after five 'cause they were already drinking beer. The big man, he don't go in the front door like the girl, he goes around back. Maybe fifteen minutes later, he comes out the front door dragging the girl by her arm, puts her in the Mustang, and they drive off. She was crying."

  "How could they tell she was crying from that far away?"

  "Binoculars."

  "They had binoculars? What for? To watch the birds?"

  "Uh … no, boss. To watch the red-haired woman go out on the back deck … naked. Said she had a tattoo."

  TWENTY-NINE

  Two days later, Scott woke early, drove to Hobby Airport in Houston, caught a Southwest flight to San Antonio, rented a car, and drove to the La Cantera Golf Club on the north side of town where the San Antonio Open was being played. He found Nick Madden talking on his cell phone and watching Pete Puckett putt on the ninth green. When Nick ended the call, he had a big grin on his face.

  "Never thought I'd be so happy to hear someone say 'erectile dysfunction.' They want Pete to endorse for them." He gestured at the green. "Twenty years, he couldn't win a fucking putt-putt tournament, then he wins the U.S. Open. I'm getting a dozen endorsement offers a day."

  "He suffers from ED?"

  "He does?"

  "Why would he endorse that stuff if he doesn't?"

  Nick gave Scott a dumbfounded look. "Money. You watch golf on TV—what are the commercials for? Drugs to make your dick harder, your prostate smaller, your hair darker, and your golf ball go farther. How to get it up, keep it up, look younger, and hit it longer—that's the WM squared fantasy, Scott, and sponsors pay big bucks to anyone who can help them tap into it. Old fart like Pete whips the young studs out here to win the Open, he's the perfect pitchman for that stuff: 'Guys, if I can win the U.S. Open, you can win the babe. All you gotta do is color your hair and swallow this pill.' " He paused. "I guess you want his prints?"