Accused

by Mark Gimenez

  They were again sitting on their surfboards, even farther offshore this time, their legs dangling in the murky warm water that was the Gulf of Mexico, gently swaying with each swell. It was nice.

  "Time. I'd be doing time. Career path for an uneducated black man in the projects is prison."

  "You think Miss Fenney's going to prison?"

  "Hard to say. But I'm going to college."

  "Is that why you read all those books?"

  "I read books so I'm not ignorant all my life."

  "You're smart."

  "I'm street smart, but not book smart."

  "You know how to survive in the projects, you could write a book about that. Shit, Louis, they put you on one of those Survivor-Jungle shows, you'd kick their asses from here to Sunday. Projects make the jungle look like Disney World."

  "I'd like to go there one day."

  "The jungle?"

  "Disney World. After college, maybe."

  "I thought about going to college once, I was watching a football game—all those hot college girls bouncing for the cameras. Hey, Louis, we could go to college together, live in one of those coed dorms. We could be roommates."

  "One summer is enough."

  Carlos turned his head real quick like. "Is that a shark?"

  Louis jumped and Carlos laughed.

  "Just kidding, big man. I read in the paper that you got a lot better chance of drowning than getting eaten by a shark."

  "That supposed to make me feel better?"

  "You think there are sharks out there?" Bobby said.

  He shook his head then turned back to Scott and Karen. They were working trial strategy on the back deck that afternoon.

  "Scotty, the D.A.'s got no motive, no witnesses, no nothing—except her prints on the murder weapon. We explain that, they lose."

  "He said if we can explain why her prints are on the knife before Monday, he'll drop the charges."

  "You ask her?"

  Scott nodded. "She doesn't remember holding the knife that way."

  "You don't stab a steak."

  "The alcohol and cocaine, she can't remember much about that night."

  "Not good. Well, here's how I figure this is gonna play out. Rex will put on a very perfunctory case. The 911 operator, the cops first on the scene, the detectives, criminologists, M.E., the lab tech to testify to her prints, and his expert. That's it. State rests. Then he'll wait to cross-examine Rebecca—see if we put her on the stand."

  "Then we call everyone who had a motive to kill Trey Rawlins and see if anyone breaks on the stand. Not the best trial strategy."

  "Only strategy we've got. And it worked before."

  "So it did."

  "Subpoenas were served," Karen said. "I got all fourteen returns of service."

  She tapped on her laptop then turned it so Bobby and Scott could see the screen, too. She had drawn a flow chart of the suspects and their motives and alibis.

  "Looks like the organizational chart of a Fortune 500 company," Scott said.

  "More than a few folks wanted Trey Rawlins dead," Bobby said.

  "Let's go back through everyone with a motive," Scott said. "Make sure we didn't miss anything."

  "First couple, Tess and Brett McBride," Karen said. "Neither of their prints matches the unidentified sets at the crime scene, and they were confirmed at the Florida tournament at the time Trey was killed. Brett played Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, made the cut, and played on the weekend. He didn't leave Florida until Sunday night."

  "And they're still married, so he likely didn't know about Tess and Trey. Next."

  "Lacy Parker, our favorite porn star, and Donnie Parker, a moron."

  "Maybe he loves her for her mind," Bobby said.

  "Only if her mind's located between her legs." Karen returned to her laptop. "Their prints don't match, and Donnie was confirmed in San Diego that Thursday, saw a doctor for his rotator cuff."

  "Also still married. Next."

  "Riley and Vic Hager. Prints don't match. Missed the cut in Florida, flew home to Wisconsin Friday. Confirmed. Oh, Riley hates Wisconsin."

  "Still married. Next."

  "Brad Dickey, Golf-a-zon-dot-com. Trey's sponsor. Great motive—if Trey died, they could terminate his endorsement contract and save ten million dollars. And they did just that. But he was at the Florida tournament all week, confirmed."

  "They could've hired a contract killer," Bobby said.

  "A corporate marketing guy hires an assassin to off their marquee athlete?" Scott said. "Where would he find one? In the yellow pages? Brad's just a guy trying to sell some golf balls. Next."

  "Royce Ballard, tour VP. They didn't want Trey to hurt the tour's image, true, but killing him?"

  "Royce is just a lawyer. Next."

  "The construction workers."

  "No way a bunch of stoned roofers get in and out clean," Bobby said. "No prints, no DNA, nothing taken."

  Scott nodded. "They just wanted his cocaine. Next."

  "Now the interesting suspects. First, Clyde 'Goose' Dalton, the caddie. A live one, no doubt about it. Trey fired and humiliated him then refused to pay him the hundred thousand he was owed. Good motive. And he had the opportunity. He flew from Florida to Austin that Thursday afternoon, arrived at five. Four hours to drive here, he could've been here at the time of death."

  "But his prints don't match those at the house, and Goose doesn't strike me as the type to sneak into Trey's house at night and stab him while he slept. He would've woke him up first, so Trey'd know it was him. Next."

  "Okay, the big three: the cartel, the mob, and the father. First up, Benito Estrada. Trey owed him five hundred thousand. He knew the layout of Trey's house because he had been there before. And he had access to professional killers, the Muertos. French doors were open, no problem for ex-commandos to enter the house, go to the kitchen, grab the knife, and stab Trey. And they wouldn't have left prints."

  "But they wouldn't have left her alive either," Bobby said. "They don't bother framing people for their murders."

  "No, they don't," Scott said. "I don't think Benito killed Trey or ordered it, but the cartel might have. They're definitely prime suspects."

  "But other than grilling Benito, what can we do?"

  Scott shook his head. "Nothing."

  "Next up, the mob. Big-time motive, millions in gambling debts then he wins that tournament he was supposed to lose, cost them twenty million. Doesn't seem like they'd let that slide. And they're professionals, too."

  "They wanted to kill him, no question about it. The question is, did someone beat them to it, like Gabe said?"

  "Someone like Pete Puckett?"

  "Exactly like Pete Puckett."

  "Motive, means, and opportunity. Confirmed presence at the crime scene that day. Billie Jean, sex … all the ingredients for murder are there."

  "And he's a hunter, means he's killed living things and he knows how to handle a knife. You can't be faint of heart to field dress a full-grown deer. It's bloody. Karen, read your notes, what those construction workers saw that day."

  She tapped on her laptop then read: "The blonde girl arrived about one in a black Mustang, went inside the house. About five, a yellow cab arrived, and the big man got out, went inside. That's probably when Pete put his prints on the kitchen counter, but that's not when Trey was murdered. The construction workers saw the big man and the blonde girl leave ten or fifteen minutes later. So Pete and Billie Jean left the house seven or eight hours before time of death. They would've been back in Austin when Trey was murdered."

  "If they drove back to Austin."

  Scott pulled out his cell phone and called the D.A.'s office; he asked for Hank Kowalski.

  "Hank, Scott Fenney. Where would a guy like Trey put a girl up on the Island?"

  "Galvez."

  "Would you do me a favor?"

  "Another one?"

  "Call the Galvez, see if Pete Puckett stayed there the night of June fourth. They'll tell you."
/>
  "I'll call you right back."

  He did.

  "One room, one night. A suite."

  "Thanks." Scott ended the call. To Bobby and Karen: "Pete could've driven home to Austin that evening. Instead, they stayed overnight. Why? Maybe to finish something he'd started. Maybe he came back that night and killed Trey."

  "But would a father really kill a man just for having sex with his seventeen-year-old daughter?" Bobby said. "Rape, maybe, but consensual sex? She's not a kid, and at seventeen, she's legal."

  "True, but Pete's pretty protective of her, and he's got a violent temper."

  "Fit of rage, I could see that, if he had killed Trey that afternoon when he caught them together. But coming back eight hours later, after he's calmed down?" Bobby shook his head. "I like the cartel or the mob. They're professional killers. Pete's a professional golfer."

  "I agree," Karen said.

  "That's it, then," Scott said.

  "Okay," Bobby said, "let me see if I've got our trial strategy straight. We're going to call the golfer who just won the U.S. Open and try to get him to confess to murdering Trey Rawlins because he was screwing his seventeen-year-old daughter. If that doesn't work, we're going to call the Island's biggest drug dealer and accuse him and his Mexican cartel employer of killing Trey. And if that doesn't work, we're going to call the local bookie and go after the mob. Is that about it?"

  "That's about it."

  "Sounds good to me."

  "Except for one thing," Karen said.

  "What's that?"

  "Rebecca's got to testify, tell the jury she didn't kill him … and explain why her prints were on the murder weapon."

  Scott's cell phone rang. He answered.

  "Scott, it's Rex. Can you come over?"

  "When?"

  "Now."

  On the computer screen, the black-and-white video showed the front entrance to a building Scott recognized. Two Latino thugs bookended the front doors under an awning. A dark Corvette pulled up at the curb, and a dark-haired woman got out and walked to the entrance. The thugs did not block her way; instead, one thug held the door open for her. She gave him a little wave as she disappeared inside.

  "Like I said, Feds got Benito's place under surveillance twenty-four/seven," the D.A. said. "Black and white tape, they didn't put the woman and the car together."

  "She said she didn't know Benito."

  "She knows him now."

  "You figure she bought cocaine from him?"

  "He doesn't sell designer shoes."

  "She's broke. How'd she pay for it?"

  The D.A. averted his eyes then fast-forwarded the video until Rebecca reappeared in the doorway. She got into the car and drove off. Scott gathered himself and stood, but the D.A. said, "I've got more evidence to share."

  Scott saw on the D.A.'s face that this wasn't going to be pleasant.

  "My tech man, he's been poking around Trey's laptop, hacking through firewalls and whatever you call that security stuff, and he found some videos. Trey and women. Homemade porn."

  Dr. Tim had said Trey had made sex tapes. The D.A. could not make eye contact with Scott.

  "Rebecca?"

  Still no eye contact.

  "I'm sorry, Scott."

  Scott stood and walked to the door and grabbed the handle.

  "Scott, it's evidence. I'm obliged to give you copies."

  "I don't want them."

  Scott Fenney was thinking like a man as he shut the door behind him.

  FORTY

  The next morning at first light, Scott dressed in running shorts and shoes and went downstairs. Boo was already watching a cable show called I, Carly.

  "It's appropriate," she said.

  "I'll be back in an hour," he said. "We'll have breakfast."

  She turned her eyes up to the clock on the wall. "Okay. See you back at exactly seven-thirty-seven."

  Scott went outside and down the deck stairs then hit the sand. He headed west. He was alone on the beach and with his thoughts. Eleven years they had lived together, slept together, and had sex together, but he had never really known her. He knew now that he would never really know her. Expensive clothes and jewelry—he knew that Rebecca Fenney. But not the Rebecca Fenney who snorted cocaine and starred in sex tapes. Who was that woman?

  He hadn't known his own wife.

  And he didn't know his ex-wife.

  That day the girls said she had left wearing her black wig and returned really happy, it hadn't been chocolate, shopping, or sex—it had been cocaine. She had gone to Benito's and bought cocaine. She had come home happy because she was high. Scott had confronted her last night. She swore she had used cocaine because of the stress of the pending trail and that she had paid Benito with her jewelry. She swore she had not found the mob money. Just as she had sworn she did not know Benito Estrada and did not kill Trey Rawlins.

  Scott did not mention the sex tapes. But Renée Ramirez had on the evening news.

  "Sex, drugs, and videotapes. Tonight, a 'Murder on the Beach' update. I've learned that the trial will reveal many salacious details about the lives of Trey Rawlins and his lover, Rebecca Fenney, on trial for his murder, including sex tapes. I've also learned that her ex-husband"—she gave her audience a sly grin—"I mean, her lawyer, has subpoenaed several professional golfers to testify at trial, including Pete Puckett, the reigning U.S. Open champion. You won't want to miss this. I will host the trial beginning Monday morning, from opening statements until the verdict is read."

  Scott soon arrived at the white house rising from the beach. He stopped and stared up at the second-story deck that led into the master bedroom where Trey Rawlins had died. If she were capable of cocaine and sex tapes, was she capable of murder? Had she lied to him about that, too? Was Rebecca Fenney the Guilty Groupie?

  Louis went downstairs to the kitchen. Consuela was just stirring with the baby, and Carlos was rustling up his regular breakfast of chocolate milk and Cheerios. Pajamae was watching cartoons. Everyone else was sleeping in. Boo was standing outside on the deck in her swimsuit. Louis slid the glass door open and stepped outside. The sea breeze brought the smell of the ocean to him. He liked breathing the sea air, living on the beach. Maybe one day he would. After college. He walked to the far railing where Boo stood. She was staring out at the sea and gripping the railing real tight with both hands like she was afraid she might fall overboard. She did not turn away from the sea, so he talked to the top of her head.

  "What're you looking for, Boo?"

  "A. Scott."

  "Mr. Fenney out running?"

  "What time is it, Louis?"

  Louis looked at his watch. "Quarter past eight. Something wrong?"

  "He didn't come back. He said he'd be back in an hour."

  "What time did he leave?"

  "Six-thirty-seven."

  "Maybe he's running slow 'cause it's Saturday."

  "Not A. Scott."

  "You want I should go look for him?"

  "Yes, please."

  She now turned to him. Tears were rolling down her little face.

  "Louis, I think he had a heart attack."

  "Which way did he run down the beach?"

  "I don't know."

  Louis walked back toward the house and shouted, "Carlos!"

  Carlos came outside with a red plastic bowl of Cheerios floating in brown milk.

  "Yeah, bro?"

  "You got your phone?"

  "Yep."

  Louis pointed east. "You go looking down the beach that way." Louis then pointed west. "I'm going looking this way."

  "What are we looking for?"

  "Mr. Fenney."

  Carlos's face got sharp. He tossed the bowl over the railing and ran down the stairs. Louis was right behind him. Carlos cut left and Louis right. Boo had not budged from her place at the railing.

  Louis Wright weighed three hundred thirty pounds, but he often surprised folks by how fast he could run and for how long. When he was sixteen and weighed only
two-thirty, he had run track in high school. Two hundred and four hundred meters. He could move it for a big boy.

  Still, he had to slow down after a mile.

  Another mile, he saw a big white house gleaming in the sun and down on the beach, the tide lapping over a clump of something. Looked like a big brown dog curled up on the sand like road kill … or maybe some kind of brown sack full of something … or maybe …

  Mr. Fenney. Oh, sweet Jesus. He did have a heart attack.

  Louis ran full-out until he got to him. Louis pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial for Carlos. When he answered, Louis said, "I found him. Come my way. And Carlos … run."

  Louis pushed the phone back into his pocket then dropped to his knees. Mr. Fenney's skin felt wet and cold to the touch. A sand crab crawled across his back. Louis flicked the crab away, then rolled him over to see if he was still breathing but he saw … blood. Shit. He didn't have no heart attack. He got beat up. Bad. Louis leaned over and put his ear to Mr. Fenney's bare chest. His heart was beating. Slowly. He was still alive.

  Most folks figured Louis was older because black men look older when they're young and younger when they're old. In fact, Louis Wright was only thirty years old. But he had already seen a lifetime of violent crime down in the projects of South Dallas. Folks shot point-blank with handguns and short-barreled shotguns, stabbed with screwdrivers, ice picks, and knives of all sizes, makes, and models, beaten to death with baseball bats, tire irons, crowbars, bricks, and even a carburetor from a 357-cubic-inch Chevy engine. Mr. Fenney's face was cut and bruised and bloody, but Louis could find no mortal wound. Someone had beaten him mercilessly, but with fists.

  A tear dropped from Louis Wright's eye onto Mr. Fenney's tanned skin.

  He slipped his arms under Mr. Fenney like a forklift and stood with this man in his arms. This man who had opened his arms and his Highland Park home to him, just as if Louis Wright's skin wasn't black and he wasn't from South Dallas. This man who had given him books and a second chance at life. This man who Louis loved like the father he never had. Carlos came running up.

  "Shit. What happened?"

  "Someone beat him bad."

  "Is he alive?"

  "He is."

  "Here, Louis, I'll help you."