by Mark Gimenez
"No. Run ahead and get the car ready."
Carlos ran ahead to the house. Louis carried Mr. Fenney, his arms and legs hanging limp and bouncing with each step Louis took. When the house came into sight, Boo was still standing at the railing. She spotted them, screamed a shrill "A. Scott!" and came running.
"Did he have a heart attack? Is he dead?"
"He ain't dead and he didn't have a heart attack. Someone tried to kill him."
Boo touched his bloody face and cried into his bloody hands. Mr. Herrin and Miss Fenney and Pajamae now ran up to them.
"Jesus," Mr. Herrin said.
"Found him 'bout two miles down the beach, by the big white house."
"Who did this to him?" Miss Fenney said.
"Folks that done this gonna pay," Louis said.
"No, Louis," Mr. Herrin said. "He wouldn't want that. Let's get him to the hospital."
Scott's face hurt. He opened his eyes to blurry visions of Boo and Pajamae.
Boo touched his face gently and said, "Oh, A. Scott—I thought you'd died on us."
Pajamae stroked his hair and said, "Whereas, Daddy."
Scott wrapped his arms around his daughters and pulled them close.
"Who's your daddy now?"
They put their heads on his chest. He blinked to clear his vision. He was in a hospital room. Which was good because he hurt like he had never hurt before, not even on a football field. And he remembered. They had beaten him on the beach.
"How'd I get here?"
Surrounding his bed were Bobby, Karen, Carlos, and Louis. The D.A. Hank Kowalski. A uniformed cop at the door. Rebecca.
"Louis found you," Bobby said.
Scott looked to Louis. "Thank you, Louis."
"Hell, Scott," the D.A. said, "if you wanted a continuance, all you had to do was ask. No need to go to all this trouble."
Scott tried to smile but it hurt. "I'll be there Monday morning."
The D.A. stepped to the bed; he wasn't smiling now. "Who did this, Scott?"
Scott shook his head. "I was running the beach, stopped at Trey's house. I was standing there thinking, all of a sudden I got cold-cocked. Two, maybe three guys, hit me until I went down. Then I passed out."
The D.A. nodded. "Well, if this is the work of Benito or Gabe or their people, we're gonna find them and prosecute them, I promise you."
Scott and the D.A.'s eyes met, and they both knew it was an empty promise. Some people would never be brought to justice, not by the law.
"Doctor said they were pros," the D.A. said. "Didn't damage any internal organs. They weren't trying to kill you, just send a message."
"They could've called."
The D.A. smiled again. "Least you still got a sense of humor. Easier to survive in this world with a sense of humor."
"I prefer a nine-millimeter Glock," Hank said.
The D.A. turned to leave but stopped and pointed a finger at Scott. "Until this trial is over, you don't need to be alone."
"He won't be," Louis said.
From that moment until they left the Island seven days later, Louis Wright never let A. Scott Fenney out of his sight.
FORTY-ONE
"Déjà vu all over again," Bobby said.
Another media circus. Another mob outside a courthouse. Once again A. Scott Fenney found himself pushing his way through a crowd of cameras and reporters shoving microphones and shouting questions at his client—
"Rebecca, did you kill Trey Rawlins?"
"Why are your fingerprints on the murder weapon?"
"Did you love him?"
—only this time his client wasn't a heroin-addicted prostitute. She was his ex-wife.
It was Monday morning, and satellite dishes rose high above the TV trucks that lined Ball Street in front of the Galveston County Courts Building, gawkers crowded the sidewalk, and the general consensus among the locals was that the murder trial would provide a welcome boost to the Island economy. It wasn't booze, gambling, and prostitution like back in the Sin City days, but it'd do in a pinch.
When Scott had defended Pajamae's mother on a murder charge two years before, he had thought she was guilty—her fingerprints were on the murder weapon—only to learn during trial that she was in fact innocent. Now, defending Boo's mother on a murder charge, he thought she was innocent—even though her fingerprints were on the murder weapon. What if he learned during trial that she was in fact guilty?
He pulled Rebecca through the crowd and into the courthouse. She looked beautiful but frightened. He had spent Sunday recuperating; she had spent the day pacing the beach like a strung-out addict. She swore she was not—addicted to cocaine or guilty of murder. She was terrified of being sent to prison. She was now holding his hand so tightly it felt numb.
They cleared the metal detectors and rode an elevator to the fourth floor. At the west end of the corridor outside the courtroom, the cable network had set up a broadcast booth against the wall of windows, like the TV booth towering above the eighteenth green at a golf tournament. Renée Ramirez was stationed in the booth; she wore headphones and faced an array of monitors. She noticed Scott and gestured at his face and mouthed, "Ouch."
Annoying as hell.
The open area where the corridor dead-ended looked like a casting call: Pete and Billie Jean Puckett and Goose sat on a bench by themselves, an aging golf pro and the only two people he had left in the world … Tess McBride, Lacy Parker, and Riley Hager huddled in one corner chatting in hushed voices like sexy sorority sisters … Brett McBride, Donnie Parker, and Vic Hager had brought their putters and a few balls and were exchanging putting tips on the smooth carpet … Brad Dickey, Royce Ballard, and Nick Madden conducted business on cell phones and laptops … Benito Estrada and one of his thugs leaned against one wall … and Gabe Petrocelli and one of his goons leaned against the other. Gabe gave Scott a sympathetic shrug.
"Sorry, Scott. Orders from Vegas. They don't want me testifying. You okay?"
"I'm good."
That was a lie. He felt awful. The swelling in his face had come down, but the rest of his body still hurt with every movement. Gabe's goons were more skilled at maiming a human body than linebackers. Louis took a step in their direction.
"No, Louis."
The defense had subpoenaed them; the law required they wait outside the courtroom until called in to testify. Which did not please them. The others glared at Scott as he walked their gauntlet to the courtroom doors—except Tess McBride. She bounced over to him, frowned at his face, and said, "When do I get to testify?"
"Get to testify? I thought you didn't want to?"
"That was before I found out it's on TV—all these cameras, everyone watching. It's like an audition."
"An audition? Testifying at a murder trial?"
Rebecca stepped close and said, "How could you, Tess? Cheat with Trey? We were friends—and you're married."
"You cheated with Trey when you were married."
"But he was with me."
Tess gave her a lame shrug and went back to the other WAGs by the wall. Scott entered the courtroom followed by the defense team and the defendant. The girls had begged to come, but he had refused. There were some things they just didn't need to know at age eleven. He didn't allow them to see PG-13 movies; why would he allow them to see an X-rated trial? When the crime scene photos of Rebecca covered in blood would be shown on the big screen above the witness stand? When there would be testimony about alcohol and cocaine and sex on the beach? When Boo's mother might have a starring role in a sex video?
He had taken Pajamae to her mother's murder trial—he had to do everything he could for Shawanda—but he couldn't do that to Boo. And that trial had not been televised; this one would be. The girls didn't need to be seen on national TV. So they were at the beach house with Consuela and Maria and uniformed police officers out front and back—and under strict instructions not to watch the trial on cable.
Judge Morgan wanted a meeting of counsel in chambers before she swore
in the jury. She looked at Scott's face and recoiled.
"My God. Are you okay, Scott?"
"Yeah. Thanks for asking."
"Because I don't want to delay the trial—we'll lose our broadcast slot. Renée said the cable channel's booked up the next two months. Next week they've got a serial murder trial up in Chicago." She turned to the D.A. "Rex, what's this about sex tapes?"
"Not evidence, Shelby."
"Renée said she asked you for copies and you refused. Why?"
"Because it's none of her goddamned business, that's why."
"You know what those tapes would do for our ratings?"
"Shelby, I'm about to go out there and ask a jury to send a human being to prison for life, so frankly, I don't give a good goddamn about cable TV ratings."
"She's filing a public information request with the AG's office in Austin."
"She can file it where the sun don't shine, all I care." He stood. "I'm gonna try a goddamned murder case."
"Jesus, Rex, every murder trial, you get really grouchy." She stood. "Does my hair look okay?"
Judge Morgan didn't sit at the bench; she posed.
When the jurors entered the courtroom and sat in the jury box, their eyes immediately turned to Rebecca Fenney. They would sit in judgment of her life—not just her actions that night, but her entire life. That wasn't the way it was supposed to work, but that's the way it did work. And they would be shocked by her life.
The Assistant D.A. read the indictment into the record, and Rebecca Fenney pleaded not guilty in open court. Galveston County Criminal District Attorney Rex Truitt slowly stood from his chair. He wore a seersucker suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, and black reading glasses. He looked like Hemingway himself stepping forward to read from one of his books, and if Ernest didn't have the D.A.'s voice, he should have.
He stepped over to the evidence table, picked up the murder weapon encased in plastic, walked to the jury box, and said, "The evidence will show that when the police arrived at the crime scene at three-fifty-seven on the morning of Friday, June the fifth, they found Trey Rawlins dead, lying on his back in his bed, with this eight-inch butcher knife stuck in his chest, right here."
He put the blade against his chest.
"The evidence will also show that the defendant's fingerprints—and only the defendant's fingerprints—were found on this knife. And that the defendant had not held the knife like this, as if to cut a steak, but like this, as if to stab."
The D.A. held the knife with the blade pointing down.
"The evidence will further show that police found the defendant in the bedroom covered in Trey Rawlins' blood … that the defendant's bloody footprints and handprints and fingerprints were found on the bedroom floor, wall, and phone … that no third-party's bloody footprints or handprints or fingerprints were found in that bedroom or anywhere in that house … that the only plausible explanation is that the defendant, Rebecca Fenney, took this knife from a drawer in their kitchen, went into their bedroom where Trey Rawlins lay sleeping on their bed, and stabbed this knife into his chest, killing him. Murder is the taking of a human life without justification. There was no justification for what the defendant did to Trey Rawlins."
The D.A. stared at the knife a long moment then placed it on the evidence table.
"Now, defense counsel will argue that the defendant had no motive to kill the victim, that she lost everything when he died. Which is true. So why did she kill Trey Rawlins? I don't know. I've been in this job for twenty-eight years now, trying criminal cases and trying to understand criminals: Why do they do what they do? Unfortunately, I am no closer to understanding my fellow human beings today than I was when I started this job. If you want to know why she killed her lover, she will have to tell you. I cannot. All I can do is prove that she did in fact kill him. And I will."
The district attorney returned to the prosecution table. Rex Truitt had done this before. He hadn't promised too much or too little, and he had left a lot to be revealed later. Things that would shock the jury, like cocaine and sex. And he set the jury up to expect Rebecca to testify.
"Mr. Fenney," the judge said, looking not at him but at the cameras.
Scott did not move because her words did not register in his mind. His thoughts were of "innocent until proven guilty." The state bears the burden to prove the defendant guilty. The defendant does not have to prove herself innocent. That's the law. But every defendant bears that burden. That's the reality of a murder trial.
Americans don't believe that innocent people go to prison in America. That's something that happens in other countries, like Russia and China and Mexico. Maybe it's ignorance, maybe it's denial, or maybe it's fear—that it's better to imprison a few innocent people than risk guilty people going free and committing more crimes. But innocent people do go to prison in America. Unless they can prove their innocence.
"Mr. Fenney."
Scott stood and walked over to the jury box. The television cameras sat on either side of the courtroom. Behind the cameras in the spectator section were reporters, print journalists from the major Texas newspapers and the wire services scribbling on tablets, and locals there for a macabre form of entertainment. Terri Rawlins sat in the front row behind the prosecution table; Melvyn Burke sat next to her. When their eyes met, Melvyn averted his gaze. Scott turned to the jurors.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Scott Fenney. I represent the defendant, Rebecca Fenney. First, my face … I took a, uh, tumble on the beach. Second, Rebecca"—he would refer to her by her first name in order to distance her from "defendant" status—"and I share the same last name because, as I'm sure you've read in the papers or heard on the TV, she is my ex-wife.
"I have great respect and personal affinity for Mr. Truitt, but he failed to mention a few other facts that the evidence will show, including that the murder weapon was part of a matched set of eight knives given to Trey Rawlins at a golf event more than a year before, that those eight knives had been in their kitchen ever since, and that Rebecca had used all of those knives, including the murder weapon, on numerous occasions for a variety of kitchen purposes.
"That Rebecca was covered in Mr. Rawlins' blood that night because she had been sleeping next to him in their bed when she woke to find him dead—how could she have killed him then slept in his blood? Who could do that? Who would?
"That Rebecca was at the crime scene when the police arrived because she called nine-one-one herself. Rebecca Fenney did not run from the scene of the crime. She summoned the police to the scene of the crime.
"That Trey Rawlins loved Rebecca, that he provided for her, that he gave her gifts of cash and jewelry and a Corvette, that he asked her to marry him the very night he was killed.
"That Rebecca had no motive to kill Trey Rawlins. She had a great life with Trey—first-class travel, five-star hotels and restaurants, spas and resorts, money, jewelry, clothes. Without Trey, she has nothing—no travel, no hotels and restaurants, no money, no home, no life insurance. Nothing except a red Corvette and jewelry.
"Why would she kill the man who gave her everything?
"She wouldn't. She didn't. Rebecca had no motive to kill Trey Rawlins. But the evidence will show that other people did have motives to kill Mr. Rawlins, that other people wanted him dead—and that some of those people had killed before.
"So don't assume the district attorney has this case figured out. He doesn't. I don't. But you must. At the end of this trial, you must decide if the prosecution proved Rebecca Fenney guilty of murder beyond a reasonable doubt. That is your legal duty. But that's not the reality, is it? Because in your mind at this very moment is a single question: If she didn't kill Trey Rawlins, then who did?
"We'll answer that question."
FORTY-TWO
The Assistant D.A. stood and called the first witness for the prosecution as if he were an actor on a stage. Perhaps he was. Perhaps they all were. In America, there was no bigger stage than a courtroom during a televised murder t
rial of a famous pro athlete, whether the victim was Trey Rawlins or the defendant was O.J. Simpson. It was the ultimate in reality TV.
Ronda Jensen, mid-fifties, a career county employee, was the 911 operator who took Rebecca's emergency call that night. She authenticated the call then the Assistant D.A. played the tape for the jury. Bobby would cross-examine the prosecution's witnesses. He stood and asked only one question of this witness.
"Ms. Jensen, who made that call to nine-one-one?"
"Rebecca Fenney."
The first police officer on the scene that night testified next. Patrol Officer Art Crandall was only thirty and had never come closer to military service than his stint in his high school ROTC, but he wore his Galveston Island Police Department uniform with the same bearing as if he were the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff testifying before Congress.
"Officer Crandall," the Assistant D.A. said, "please tell the jury what you were doing at three-forty-eight on the morning of Friday, June fifth?"
"Three-forty-eight? Must've been eating a donut."
The Assistant D.A. rolled his eyes. "After that."
"Oh. Dispatch put out an emergency call to the West End, on Treasure Isle Lane in Lafitte's Beach."
"And did you answer that call?"
"Yes, sir, I did."
"Please tell the jury what you did when you arrived at the address."
"I pulled up out front of the residence—"
"At what time?"
"Three-fifty-seven."
"Did you see any other cars or people out front?"
"No, but Officer Guerrero arrived right after me. We then proceeded along the east side of the residence down to the beach."
"And why didn't you go to the front door?"
"Dispatch said to go around back, which sits right on the beach. We climbed the rear stairs to the back deck. The doors right there were open. I yelled 'Police!' and we entered the residence."
"Officer Crandall, would you please look at the monitor next to the witness stand?"
The Assistant D.A. nodded to a staffer manning a laptop at the prosecution table. A color photo showing the front of the Rawlins residence appeared on the big screen above the witness stand.
