Accused

by Mark Gimenez

  "Will I?"

  "Lie?"

  "Testify."

  "Only if you don't want to go to prison. Your prints on the knife, that alone is enough to get the case to the jury. They want to hear you explain why your prints are on the murder weapon, they want to hear you say, 'I didn't kill Trey. I loved him.' "

  "I did. Love him."

  She stared down at the waves, almost as if mesmerized. The moon offered the only light. All the color was washed out by the night. The world was painted only in shades of gray.

  "I've lived my life in shades of gray," she said.

  FIFTY

  Experienced criminal defense lawyers will tell you that the last person they want testifying is the defendant because if the defendant is caught in a lie—any lie, no matter how small or how irrelevant to her guilt or innocence it might be—the jury will never believe another word she says. This was a lesson A. Scott Fenney would learn that day, the fifth day of trial in The State of Texas vs. Rebecca Fenney.

  "The defense calls Rebecca Fenney."

  She wore low heels and a simple green dress. She looked more like a suburban housewife than the hottest WAG on tour. But she could not hide her beauty.

  "Ms. Fenney, did you kill Trey Rawlins?"

  "No."

  "Did you love him?"

  "Yes. Very much."

  "The night he was killed, did he take you out to dinner at Gaido's?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he ask you to marry him?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you accept his proposal?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you and he have sex on the beach that night?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you go to bed together?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you next remember?"

  "I woke up at three-forty-five in the morning and found him dead. I called nine-one-one. The police came."

  "Did you know Trey was having an affair with Billie Jean Puckett?"

  "No."

  "Did Trey ever say he was leaving you for her or any other woman?"

  "No."

  "He gave you money and jewelry?"

  "Yes."

  "Before Trey's death, you lived in a beach house here in Galveston, an oceanfront condo in Malibu, and a ski lodge in Beaver Creek, you drove a Corvette, you stayed in five-star hotels, traveled first class, enjoyed spas …?"

  "Yes."

  "Now you have nothing except the Corvette?"

  "And the jewelry."

  "You have no money, no assets, no home, no life insurance?"

  "No."

  "You had no motive to kill Trey Rawlins?"

  "No."

  "And you did not kill him?"

  "No, I did not."

  During a short recess, Scott noticed the D.A. and his assistant having an animated discussion in the corner of the courtroom. The D.A.'s head was down, and his assistant was pleading. The D.A. finally nodded. When he returned to his table, his eyes met Scott's but not for long. And Scott knew. It was the sex tapes: the Assistant D.A. wanted to introduce the sex tapes, and he had won the argument.

  The judge gaveled the courtroom to order, and the Assistant D.A. stood to cross-examine the defendant charged with stabbing a star athlete to death. This was his big TV moment, and he wanted to make the best of it. Rebecca had been calm and collected during the direct examination because Scott had rehearsed it with her a dozen times. But there was no effective rehearsal for cross-examination by a sneaky prosecuting son of a bitch, and the Assistant D.A. was just such a prosecutor. Rebecca Fenney was nervous, but not as nervous as her lawyer.

  "Ms. Fenney, let's talk about the jewelry Trey Rawlins gave you."

  The Assistant D.A. glanced at Scott and winked. And Scott knew that neither the D.A. nor his assistant had missed it. That was what they had argued about—not the sex tapes. They were going to show that Rebecca had lied—that she had paid Benito cash for the cocaine—that she had the $3 million the mob had paid Trey.

  "Ms. Fenney, during the course of your relationship with Mr. Rawlins, did he give you gifts of jewelry and a Corvette?"

  "Yes."

  "And cash that you used to buy more jewelry?"

  "And clothes."

  "And was that Corvette in the garage of the house you shared with Mr. Rawlins on the night of his death?"

  "Yes."

  "Was the jewelry in the house that night?"

  "Yes."

  "Subsequent to Mr. Rawlins' death, his attorney surrendered possession of the Corvette to you?"

  "Yes."

  "And all the jewelry Mr. Rawlins had given you or that you had purchased with cash he had given you over the course of your relationship?"

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "When what?"

  "When did Mr. Rawlins' attorney deliver possession of those items to you?"

  "Well, I …"

  "Does Friday June twelfth sound right for the Corvette?"

  "Yes, I think that's right."

  "And Monday June fifteenth for the jewelry? Right here in this courtroom before your arraignment?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay. Now, have you since sold any of that jewelry?"

  "No."

  "Have you since sold the Corvette?"

  "No."

  "So when you testified that you had no money, did you literally mean no money at all? As in zero? Not a single dollar?"

  "Yes."

  "You have no money in a bank account, a shoe box, under your bed, or buried on the beach like Jean Lafitte's treasure? No money anywhere?"

  "No."

  Scott felt sick. It was like watching a speeding freight train bearing down a compact car trying to cross the tracks too late and not being able to stop it.

  "Ms. Fenney, you were aware of Trey's affairs with other women?"

  "No, I was not."

  "You knew he was going to leave you for Billie Jean Puckett?"

  "No. He proposed to me that night."

  A little anger had seeped out.

  "Where were you on the day of June the fourth?"

  "In Houston. At the Galleria."

  "At what time?"

  "I left the house at about ten and returned about six."

  "You were in Houston the entire day?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you and Mr. Rawlins went to Gaido's for dinner?"

  "Yes."

  "At what time?"

  "Seven."

  "And what time did you return to the house?"

  "Ten."

  "What time did you go to bed?"

  "About eleven."

  "And you woke at three-forty-five A.M. and found Mr. Rawlins dead?"

  "Yes."

  "But you heard nothing?"

  "No."

  "Ms. Fenney, did anyone else know that Trey proposed to you?"

  "Ricardo, our waiter."

  "Because you told him?"

  "Yes."

  "Did Trey tell anyone?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "So it's just your word that he proposed to you?"

  "Why would I lie?"

  "Maybe because you killed him."

  "I didn't."

  The Assistant D.A. picked up the murder weapon.

  "Then why are your fingerprints on the murder weapon?"

  "It's a kitchen knife. I must've used it."

  "When?"

  "Sometime. I don't know when. Maybe a year ago, like that state lab guy said."

  "Mr. Haynes said you could have put your prints on this knife a year before, didn't he?"

  "Yes, he did."

  "Except there's two problems with that scenario, aren't there?"

  "What problems?"

  "First, after you used this knife to cut something, perhaps a steak, what did you do with it?"

  "I don't understand."

  "Well, did you cut a steak and then put the knife right back in the drawer?"

  "No, I put it in the sink or the dishwasher."

  "For Rosie Gonz
ales to clean, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "So your prints from a year before wouldn't still be on this knife, would they? They would have been washed off, wouldn't they?"

  "I … I don't know."

  "That's all right, the jury knows. And second, Mr. Haynes didn't know that Rosie Gonzales had cleaned the dishes that very day, did he?"

  "I don't know."

  "Ms. Fenney, you heard Rosie Gonzales's testimony, didn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "You heard her testify that when she left at noon on June the fourth the entire knife set was clean and in the kitchen drawer, didn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Which means, Ms. Fenney, you did not put your fingerprints on this knife a year before or a month before or a week before—you put your fingerprints on this knife the same day Trey Rawlins was murdered with this knife, isn't that correct?"

  "I don't know."

  "Sometime after Rosie Gonzales left at noon and before this knife was removed from Trey Rawlins' body, isn't that correct?"

  "I don't know."

  "But you were gone all day, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "You didn't return until six P.M.?"

  "Yes."

  "So you had to put your prints on this knife between six P.M. and three-fifty-seven A.M. when Officers Crandall and Guerrero entered your house and found this knife stuck in Mr. Rawlins' chest, isn't that correct?"

  "I don't know … I guess …"

  "You guess? Ms. Fenney, did you use this knife that night?"

  "I … maybe … I must have."

  "And what did you use this knife for?"

  "I don't know. I swear."

  "Oh, don't swear, Ms. Fenney. Just tell the truth."

  "I'm trying."

  "Telling the truth shouldn't be difficult."

  Scott stood. "Objection. Badgering the witness."

  The judge stared at Scott. She had apparently realized overnight that he had actually saved her judicial career. She exhaled and ruled on his objection.

  "Sustained."

  "Ms. Fenney, you returned to the house at six P.M. You and Mr. Rawlins then went out to eat at seven P.M., correct?"

  "Yes."

  "So you didn't use this knife to cut a steak that night, did you?"

  "No."

  "Did you use this knife for any purpose between six P.M. and seven P.M. that night?"

  "No. I don't think so."

  "Okay. You and Mr. Rawlins returned home from Gaido's about ten, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "And went to bed about eleven?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you use this knife between ten P.M. and eleven P.M. on June the fourth?"

  "I don't remember."

  "You don't remember?"

  "No."

  "You don't remember if you used this knife to cut anything that night?"

  "No."

  "But we know you didn't use this knife to cut anything, Ms. Fenney, because your fingerprints are not on this knife in the way you would hold it to cut something, are they?"

  "I don't know."

  "You held this knife to stab, didn't you, Ms. Fenney?"

  "No!"

  "Like this."

  The Assistant D.A. held the knife with the blade down, as if to stab. He stepped close to the witness.

  "What did you stab with this knife, Ms. Fenney?"

  "Nothing!"

  "You stabbed something, Ms. Fenney. Between the hours of ten P.M. when you and Mr. Rawlins were last seen at Gaido's and three-fifty-seven A.M. when the police arrived at your house, you used this knife to stab something, didn't you, Ms. Fenney?"

  "I don't know!"

  She was crying now.

  "You used this knife to stab Trey Rawlins, didn't you?"

  "No!"

  "You murdered Trey Rawlins, didn't you?"

  "No!"

  She turned to the jurors sitting just a few feet from her. "He gave me everything … now I have nothing. Why would I kill him? I loved him!"

  "I'm sure you did."

  The Assistant D.A. turned away and gave the jury a raised eyebrow—completely unethical courtroom conduct, but also very effective. He stepped over to the evidence table and replaced the murder weapon. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.

  "Ms. Fenney, you were drunk that night, correct?"

  She wiped her face. "Yes."

  "And you were stoned on cocaine, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "So you really don't remember much from that night, do you?"

  "No, I don't. But I didn't kill him."

  "You used cocaine with Trey?"

  "Yes."

  "And on your own?"

  "Yes."

  "You know Benito Estrada?"

  "Yes."

  "You purchased cocaine from him?"

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Does Saturday June thirteenth sound right?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, we have you on tape visiting Benito's place of business on Market Street on that date. Did you purchase cocaine at that time?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, let's see, Ms. Fenney, you've testified that you have no assets except a red Corvette and some jewelry, is that correct?"

  The train bore down on the car.

  "Yes."

  "Did you give Benito your Corvette in exchange for the cocaine?"

  "No."

  Closer now.

  "Did you give him jewelry in exchange for the cocaine?"

  "No."

  "You couldn't have because in fact you didn't receive that jewelry from Mr. Rawlins' attorney until Monday June fifteenth, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "And you have testified that you had zero dollars, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "So you did not pay Benito with cash?"

  "No."

  "And I'm betting he didn't take a check or a credit card?"

  "No."

  "Well, Ms. Fenney, exactly what did you pay Benito with?"

  Rebecca's eyes dropped. She stared down and said nothing, as if hoping the Assistant D.A. would go away. He didn't.

  "Ms. Fenney, isn't it a fact that you are in possession of three million dollars in cash the mob paid Trey Rawlins for throwing two golf tournaments?"

  "No."

  "And isn't it a fact that you used some of that money to pay Benito Estrada for cocaine?"

  "No."

  "Well then, Ms. Fenney, would you please tell the jury how you paid Benito Estrada for the cocaine? What did you give Benito Estrada in exchange for cocaine?"

  The train now collided with the car—but it wasn't the collision Scott or the Assistant D.A. or anyone else in the courtroom had expected.

  Rebecca Fenney looked up and said, "I traded sex."

  FIFTY-ONE

  Scott knew now that it could never be the same. She could not be his wife or Boo's mother. He had wanted her back every day since she had left two years before. Every day he had woken wanting her. Every day he had run to forget her. Every day he had gone to bed missing her. Now he didn't want her back.

  He didn't want her sleeping in a prison cot, but he didn't want her sleeping in his bed.

  She had cheated on him, she had lied to him, she had used cocaine while living with him that summer. And with their daughter. Had she killed Trey Rawlins, too? Had she lied about everything? All the reasonable doubt they had created in the jurors' minds had been washed away like the West End homes during Ike with those three words: "I traded sex." With those three words, Rebecca had sentenced herself to prison—unless Scott could explain to the jury why her prints were on the murder weapon and aligned as if holding the knife to stab something. Or someone.

  "A. Scott?"

  "Yes, honey?"

  "You lied to me about that, didn't you?"

  "About what?"

  "Mother using drugs."

  "You've been watching the trial on cable."

  "I
had to."

  "Yes. I lied to you."

  "Why?"

  "Because I didn't think you needed to know that about your mother."

  "I wish I didn't. There's a lot I wish I didn't know about Mother."

  "Me, too."

  "I've decided."

  "What?"

  "About mother and us."

  "What have you decided?"

  "I don't want her to come back to us."

  The sun doesn't set in July in Texas until after nine. They had eaten dinner in town. Boo wanted to talk, so Scott took her for a walk along the seawall while the others went back to the house. Except Louis. He came with them.

  "I'll always love Mother, but I don't think she's right for us anymore. I like our family the way it is now."

  Scott put his arm around her little shoulder and pulled her close. They walked on a while then she said, "Mother's testimony today—that wasn't good, was it?"

  "No. It wasn't good."

  "Do you think the jury will send her to prison?"

  "Yes, I think they will."

  "Do they have air-conditioning in prison?"

  "No."

  "But it's hot in Texas."

  "Yes, it is."

  "She'll sweat a lot."

  "Yes, she will."

  "I don't want that."

  "Me neither."

  "I'll worry about her."

  "Boo, you're only eleven. You've got to stop worrying about everyone else—your mother, my health …"

  "A. Scott, I'll always worry about you."

  He pulled her closer. The peacefulness of the seawall seemed so incongruous with the turmoil inside Scott's mind. His client—his ex-wife—the mother of his child—would be sentenced to life in prison.

  "I've decided something else, too," Boo said.

  "What's that?"

  "I don't want cable."

  They walked on past joggers and bikers and skateboarders and, across the boulevard, the San Luis Resort Hotel that sat atop two concrete coastal artillery bunkers built during World War Two and armed with 12-inch guns to blow any German U-boats attempting to land on Galveston Beach out of the water. Scott felt as if the defense had been blown out of the water that day—by the defendant. They walked until they came to a fruit stand where an old Latino man was selling fresh watermelons, cantaloupes, apples, and oranges. He had a friendly face. "I have cold melons, on ice," the old man said. "They are very fresh, just up from the valley."

  Texas' Rio Grande Valley produced the state's vegetables and melons. They stopped, and Scott pointed at a big watermelon.

  "Three big slices."

  The old man leaned down behind his makeshift counter and lifted a huge green watermelon. He placed it on the white wax paper that covered the counter. He turned then came back with a large knife. He gripped the knife with the blade pointing downward, raised it about two feet above the belly of the melon, then stabbed the defenseless watermelon in its gut all the way to the hilt of the knife. He then dragged the knife down lengthwise, slicing the melon. He removed the knife, flipped the melon around, and repeated the procedure down the other side. The melon fell open into equal halves, exposing the red pulp … just like the watermelon they had seen in the refrigerator at Rebecca's house on their tour of the crime scene.