by Mark Gimenez
The time had come to tell her the whole truth. Scott turned to her and took her by the shoulders.
"Rebecca—your prints weren't aligned on the knife like you were cutting something, with the blade pointing up. The prints prove that you were holding that knife with the blade pointing down … as if to stab something."
"Or someone."
"Do you remember ever using that knife that way?"
"No. Never."
"Your prints prove you did. Sometime. For something."
She shook her head. He released her shoulders.
"And wouldn't Rosie have washed the knives after you used them?"
"Sure. Or put them in the dishwasher. She came that day."
"Did you use that knife that day? Or that night?"
"I don't think so. I ate lunch in Houston, we had dinner out. Scott, we were drinking a lot … and the cocaine … I don't remember much from that night."
He looked at her.
"I'd remember if I killed him."
THIRTY-FIVE
Fireworks exploded in the night sky over the Gulf of Mexico.
Two nights later, they were sitting in folding chairs lined up on the seawall for the Fourth of July celebration. Boo and her mother sat side by side at one end.
"You're a complicated woman," Boo said.
Mother smiled. "Is that a compliment?"
"It means we don't understand you."
"Boo, a woman's life is a complicated life."
"That's something else I'll understand when I'm older?"
"Yes."
Boo watched the fireworks for a while then said, "Mother, if you don't go to prison, do you want to come back to us?"
"Do you want me back?"
"We're at that age—we need a mother."
"Yes, you do."
"We … we need a mother."
Louis and Pajamae sat at the other end. "You decide yet?" he said.
"Decide what?"
"If Mr. Fenney's gonna be your daddy."
"I did something real bad, Louis."
"What's that?"
"When I said prayers last night, I asked God to send Miz Fenney to that prison."
"Why?"
"So Mr. Fenney doesn't marry her."
" 'Cause you figure if he does, there won't be no place for you?"
"Unh-huh."
"Well, you ain't figuring right, girl. You Mr. Fenney's daughter, so if he marries her again, you're part of a package deal, see? She gotta take it or leave it, the whole package. Ain't no picking and choosing."
"You think?"
"I know."
The night sky exploded in red and white sparkles.
"That was a nice one."
"Real nice."
Karen and Bobby sat in the middle. Bobby was trying out names on her.
"Sam?
"Ron?
"Cole?
"Clay?"
Karen groaned.
"Is it time?" Bobby asked.
"No. Junior just gave me a big kick to the ribs."
"Let me feel."
Bobby placed his palms on her belly.
Scott was happy for his old friend. He had finally found someone to share his life. Funny. After twenty-five years of Bobby Herrin envying Scott Fenney, Scott now envied Bobby.
Scott sat between Louis and Carlos, who was bouncing Maria on his lap and pointing at the fireworks. Consuela was knitting a little sweater for the baby. Louis leaned toward Scott.
"Mr. Fenney, I'm thinking about going back to school, getting my high school diploma, maybe go to college. I like learning things."
"That's good thinking."
Louis now pointed past Scott. "We got company."
Down the seawall, three Latino men were walking toward them: Benito Estrada and his thugs. Scott stood and walked toward the men. Louis and Carlos were on his heels. Benito waved like a kid come to play.
"Buenas noches, Scott."
"What brings you out, Benito?"
Benito waved a hand to the sky. "The fireworks. I never miss the fireworks. The Island, she is beautiful at night."
"Why'd you bring bodyguards for the fireworks?"
"Them? Oh, they come with the job, like Obama and the Secret Service." Benito glanced over at the others. "Your daughters?"
"Yes."
"Cute kids. I hope to have children one day."
"Might want to change your line of work first. Be hard to tell your kids not to use drugs if you're selling them."
"Five more years, Scott, then I am retiring."
"But will the cartel let you retire?"
His expression turned serious. "That is the question."
"You could quit now, leave the Island, start over somewhere, use your business skills in a more productive—and legal—way."
"I will never leave. I was born on the Island, and I will die on the Island." His eyes seemed to go away for a moment, then he said, "Scott, may we talk privately?"
They stepped down the seawall then Benito stopped and said, "Scott, this subpoena, it is a mistake."
"Why?"
"Because the cartel is watching this closely. Do not bring them into it. Things could get ugly."
"Is that a threat?"
"No. Just friendly advice. Like I told you, I do not do violence. But they do. They kill women, kids, dogs—they do not care. You bring them into this, you endanger your family."
"I could send them home."
"You cannot hide from the Muertos. They are here now, in America. And they are here to stay."
How does a lawyer zealously represent his client pursuant to the rule of law when some people make their own rules?
"Do you deliver personally to Senator Armstrong's daughter?"
"You know about her?"
Scott nodded. "And I know what happened to Trey's cocaine."
"What?"
"Those construction workers down the street, they stole it."
"You are sure?"
"They told Carlos."
Benito gazed at the fireworks in the sky above them. "He was my friend, and I did not trust him. I hope I did not get my friend killed."
The next installment of "Murder on the Beach" aired that night on the late news.
"This is Renée Ramirez live from Galveston. Rebecca Fenney might have less than three weeks of freedom left—her murder trial starts in fifteen days—but she seemed unconcerned tonight as she enjoyed the fireworks on the seawall."
The picture cut to the Fenney family on the seawall.
"She taped us!" Rebecca said.
Scott, Rebecca, Bobby, and Karen were in the living room watching the TV.
Back to Renée Ramirez. "And here she enjoyed something else. Or should I say, someone else."
The picture went to a shadowy night scene on the beach. Two people strolling along the surf. A bare-chested man and a woman in a white bikini. The woman stopped and kissed the man. Then she skipped down the beach and removed her bikini and ran into the water. The man followed her and embraced her and they …
"Oh, my God," Rebecca said.
"Uh-oh," Bobby said.
"That's not you and …?" Karen said. "Oh, boy."
Renée Ramirez had secretly filmed them that night on the beach three weeks before. It was clearly Rebecca—her red hair glowed in the moonlight—but it was not clearly Scott. The tape ended, and the screen returned to Renée Ramirez.
"This was only ten days after Trey's death, and Rebecca Fenney was acting like a college girl on spring break. But I'm sure she loved Trey."
A thought occurred to Scott.
"Rebecca, you said Renée did a profile of Trey … When?"
"A couple weeks before he …"
"Did you go with him to the studio?"
"No. I was shopping in Houston that day. But they didn't do the interview at the studio. They did it here."
"Here where?"
"At the house."
Scott stared down at his ex-wife.
"Renée Ramirez was in
your house?"
THIRTY-SIX
With Renée Ramirez sipping a Mimosa in the foreground and the whitecaps of the waves washing ashore in the background, it was a chamber of commerce portrait of Galveston Island.
She was a stunningly beautiful Latina in a stunningly short skirt. She had shiny brown hair and smooth tan skin but her eyes were as blue as the summer sky. Her voluptuous body strained against her snug low-cut white top. She wore a turquoise-and-silver necklace and silver coyote earrings and no wedding band. She was young, beautiful, and perched on a high stool with her long bare legs crossed as if daring Scott—or any man within eyeball range of her—not to stare.
He stared.
Scott had called her station and set up a meeting at the open-air pool bar at the Hotel Galvez on the seawall for that Monday morning. Renée had arrived first and ordered the Mimosa. Scott had arrived with his blood pressure pumping, ready to give her a piece of his mind for putting his daughters on television. She attempted to preempt his fatherly anger by appealing to his manly vanity, as if that would work.
"Those football tapes, you were quite the stud in college, Scott. You look like you could still play."
"Oh, thanks, I—" He caught himself. Damn, it almost worked. "Don't put my girls on TV again."
"Freedom of the press. You and Rebecca are news, you were in a public place, and they happened to be there with you. So how about an on-air interview?"
"No."
She pushed her lips out. "Odd. Most lawyers are begging to be on TV." She sipped her Mimosa. "Anyway, I was completely within the law."
"Just because you can doesn't mean you should."
"Should you and Rebecca have been groping each other like horny teenagers on a public beach that night?" She grinned. "That was you, wasn't it? What was that about, for old time's sake?" She shrugged. "I guess she is your ex. Screwing her is one thing, but why are you defending her?"
Scott got suspicious. He glanced around the bar for a hidden camera. He saw nothing, but he accused her anyway.
"Are you secretly taping our conversation?"
"You mean, like with a wire?"
"Or a tape recorder."
Renée slid off the stool and stepped so close to Scott he could breathe in her perfume.
"You want to pat me down?"
Yes. Desperately.
"Doesn't look like you're hiding anything. Your clothes are so tight I doubt you could get a finger in between."
"You could try."
She winked at him then climbed aboard—her stool—and assumed her legs-crossed-I-dare-you-not-to-stare position.
"So why are you defending her?"
"She's the mother of my child."
"But she cheated on you with the guy she killed!"
"She cheated with him, but she didn't kill him."
"You just can't let her go." She shook her beautiful head. "Men. You know the best way to get over her? Cheat back."
"But we're not married."
"Doesn't matter. You need to get over her—it's a psychological thing. And it'll make you feel better." She uncrossed her legs and swiveled toward him then licked her glossy lips and leaned in. "And I happen to be free today."
Leaning toward him like that, she exposed a significant portion of her full, soft breasts—which attracted Scott's male eyes. Gabe Petrocelli was right: she was as alluring and dangerous as a rattlesnake. Rattlers are pit vipers—they hunt warm-blooded prey; they swallow their victims whole; and they are conniving slithering beasts. They coil up and shake their rattles to attract your eye, to distract you, to disarm you, then—ZAP!—they strike at you with jaws wide and sink their fangs into your flesh and inject their venom. Scott tried not to stare at Renée's rattles.
"I'd be afraid of seeing a tape on the evening news."
"I doubt you're that good." She gave him another sexy wink. "But I'll guarantee confidentiality."
The man who had not been with a woman in almost two years wanted to say, "Let's get a room!" But the lawyer representing his ex-wife on a murder charge said, "I doubt anything is confidential with you."
She frowned and sat up, taking her rattles with her. The lawyer had spoiled a perfect human encounter, as lawyers are wont to do. But the man was comforted by the knowledge that he was years away from requiring a Viagra prescription.
"Why'd you air that tape just two weeks before the trial?"
"Sweeps week. Ratings. Sex sells, Scott. I'm hoping the networks will pick it up when the trial starts."
"You're hoping Trey's murder advances your career?"
She rolled her blue eyes. "Save the righteous indignation, Scott. I know lawyers. And I know a lawyer's only measure of success is money and the things money can buy. Why do you want to be a federal judge, to save the world? Or because it's a taxpayer-guaranteed lifetime salary? You're willing to have your career advanced by an asshole like Armstrong, but you're judging me?" She almost laughed. "Lawyers are always so goddamned self-righteous, always ready to criticize everyone else's ambitions and denounce everyone else's desires—at eight hundred dollars an hour." She shrugged. "Besides, I didn't kill him."
He shook his head.
"Look, Scott, I graduated with straight As in journalism, but the only job offer I got was as a weather girl—and only because of my looks. I put myself through UT modeling for local stores in Austin, could've signed with a New York agency but I wanted a serious profession, like journalism. Turns out I was still modeling. Five years standing in front of a green screen pointing out cold fronts and high-pressure systems. Now I'm thirty years old. My time to jump to the networks is running out fast. This body won't last forever. I've got to spend two hours a day in the gym to compete."
"For men?"
"For jobs. In TV, you get fat, you get fired. Women, anyway. Men can be old and fat and on-air, but women—once you put on a few pounds and the face sags, you're history. And that goddamn HDTV highlights every flaw. This is my shot, Scott. Minorities are in right now. You watch the network morning shows? Looks like the goddamned General Assembly at the UN. The Hispanic population is exploding, so every morning show has a pretty Latina. I want to be the next one. I'm an educated, articulate, hot-looking Hispanic—I'm perfect for today's demographics. Wall Street's vying for our business and Washington for our votes—why do you think we finally got a Supreme Court justice? It's our time. It's my time."
She drank her Mimosa.
"Scott, I'm sorry you're upset about your kids, but this is my moment, and I'm not going to let it pass me by. I just need something big to catch a network's eye."
"Like a murder case?"
"I don't make the news. I just report it."
"Who's your source at the courthouse?"
"That's confidential."
"You're tainting potential jurors."
"A lifetime on this island tainted them."
"You're denying my client her right to a fair trial."
"Take it up with Shelby."
Renée sipped her drink. Scott eyed her manicured fingers wrapped around the damp glass.
"I'm filing for a change of venue this morning."
"Good luck with that."
"You don't think I can get the trial moved?"
"Not in our lifetime."
"Why not?"
"Scott, the typical murder case on the Island, it's drug violence—black on black, brown on brown. Go to the trial, won't be anyone there except the victim's family, if them. Case gets two sentences in the Metro section, not even a mention on my station's evening news. Why? Because Anglos could care less if blacks and Latinos are killing each other. More the merrier, they think."
She drank her Mimosa and shook her head.
"Hurricane Ike white-washed the Island, destroyed the public housing, sent the blacks and Latinos fleeing to the mainland, which made a lot of Anglos giddy—like your buddy Armstrong. They think Ike did the Island a favor, that an all-white Island will attract more tourists and rich folks to buy beach houses—and m
aybe get a casino here. So they don't want to rebuild the public housing—the minorities are gone and they want them to stay gone. That's the way it is here, Scott. That's why I want to get the hell out of here. This case—a star pro golfer stabbed by the Guilty Groupie—this is front-page news, lead story on every Houston newscast, updates on the network morning shows. This murder case is my ticket off this fucking island."
Renée finished her Mimosa then slid off her stool and slithered over to the exit. She had a nice slither. At the door she stopped and turned back to Scott—he thought to see if he were looking at her—but she said, "And it's Shelby's ticket, too."
THIRTY-SEVEN
"I'm not losing this case because you can't keep your dick in your pants!"
It was a week later—one week before the trial—and Judge Shelby Morgan was pointing a long manicured finger at Scott. The prosecution and defense teams had crowded into the judge's chamber for the pretrial conference.
"It's not your case to win or lose, Judge. It's ours. Issue a gag order."
"I can't do that. There's a little thing called the First Amendment."
"Then move the trial to Austin or San Antonio, out of the range of the Houston TV stations—everyone down here has seen Renée's reports. My client can't get a fair trial in Galveston County."
"He's right, Shelby," the D.A. said. "Between Renée and whoever the hell is leaking the evidence to her, we'll have a heck of a time seating a jury of twelve folks who haven't made up their minds about the case. Hell, a week in Austin won't be that bad. You can look up old friends from your UT days."
The judge shook her head. "Moving the case now, seven days before trial, that'd screw up the cable deal for sure. Motion for change of venue is denied."
"What cable deal?" Scott said.
"Renée made a deal with cable TV, they're going to air the entire trial, start to finish."
"You're going to let her televise the trial? Judge, didn't you watch O.J.'s trial? It was a farce, everyone playing to the cameras."
The D.A. nodded. "Shelby, that was a train wreck of a trial. TV cameras bring out the worst in everyone—jurors, witnesses, cops"—he glanced at the Assistant D.A.—"lawyers. You don't want to go there."
The judge leaned back in her chair, obviously weighing the pros and cons of TV cameras in her courtroom. Right now, she stood first in line for the federal bench; a bad TV experience and she could fall from first to last. On the other hand, a masterful performance could send her straight to the federal appeals court, a short step away from the Supreme Court. She sat forward in her chair.
