Accused Page 7

  "Let's go, boys and girls, it's a work day."

  Scott ate breakfast then showered and dressed in what would be his standard Island attire: jeans, topsiders, and a knit shirt. He only wore suits to court now, a benefit of not working in a large law firm, albeit one that did not quite offset the $750,000 salary. He went downstairs and out to the back deck where Karen was interviewing Rebecca. He paused and observed his ex-wife like a juror observing the defendant's demeanor. She was the accused and the only eyewitness. The jury would have to believe Rebecca Fenney.

  "Rebecca," Karen said, "what'd you do after you came back inside and found Trey lying in bed with a knife in his chest?"

  "I called nine-one-one."

  "From the bedroom?"

  "Yes."

  "What'd you do after you made the call?"

  "I stayed on the phone until the police arrived."

  "You didn't give him CPR?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "There was so much blood … I knew …"

  "Do you have a life insurance policy on Trey?"

  "No."

  "Any joint bank accounts?"

  "No. I don't even have a bank account."

  "How'd you pay your bills?"

  "I didn't. Trey did. Or his accountant did."

  "What's his name, the accountant?"

  "Tom Taylor. He has an office on the Strand."

  "How'd you buy things?"

  "He gave me money. Trey."

  "How much did he give you, at any one time?"

  "A thousand, sometimes more."

  "Cash?"

  "Yes."

  "What'd you buy?"

  "Stocks and bonds." She shrugged. "What else? Clothes and jewelry."

  "Did he give you money that day?"

  She nodded. "He was going to the club to practice all day, for the Open. He told me to go to Houston, buy something sexy. I guess because he was planning to propose that night."

  "What'd you buy that day?"

  "The necessities—lingerie and shoes."

  "Where?"

  "Victoria's Secret, Jimmy Choo … at the Galleria."

  "When did you return?"

  "About six. Then we went to dinner."

  "Are you in his will?"

  "I never asked."

  "Why not?"

  "I wasn't his wife." Rebecca held an envelope out to Scott. "Here's that letter, from Terri's lawyer."

  Scott removed and read the letter. A Galveston lawyer named Melvyn Burke was representing the Estate of Trey Rawlins. Trey had died intestate—without a will—which made Terri Rawlins, his sister and only surviving relative, the sole beneficiary of his estate. Everything Trey owned would go to her. Rebecca would get nothing. Melvyn Burke instructed Rebecca not to enter the house or to remove any of the contents thereof. He also advised that she was not invited to Trey's funeral services and would not be allowed to enter the church.

  "You ever meet this Melvyn Burke?"

  Rebecca shook her head. "I didn't know Trey had a lawyer on the Island."

  Karen continued her interview of Rebecca. "So you didn't stand to gain financially from Trey's death?"

  "Gain? I've got nothing now. No house, no car, no money, no clothes, no jewelry—nothing."

  "You have a child who still loves you."

  The two women regarded each other like fighters facing off before a boxing match. Rebecca finally broke away and glanced up at Scott, as if hoping he'd come to her defense. He couldn't. He could defend her against a murder charge, but not against deserting her child. She sighed and turned back to her pregnant interrogator.

  "Karen, don't judge me as a mother until you've been one for a while."

  Karen's eyes dropped to her belly for a moment, then she looked back at Rebecca.

  "That last night, did you and Trey have sex?"

  "Karen."

  Rebecca again glanced up at Scott.

  "Goes to motive."

  She sighed again. "Yes."

  "Where?" Karen asked.

  "On the beach. There's never anyone out here now, since Ike."

  "What were you wearing?"

  "Lingerie I bought that day."

  "What exactly?"

  She ducked her eyes. "White silk babydoll and matching thong."

  "Did you change before you went to bed?"

  "No. Why?"

  "DNA. His. To prove up the sex."

  "They took my clothes, the police."

  Karen nodded. "Evidence. Were any valuables missing from the house?"

  "I don't know. They arrested me that morning, I haven't been back."

  "Were you and Trey here all week?"

  "We flew in Sunday night, from California."

  "Why wasn't he playing last week?"

  "He had just won the Challenge, he wanted to take a week off before the Open—the U.S. Open—to rest and practice. It's a major."

  Scott had heard enough. For now.

  "Karen," he said, "get a detailed timeline for that day, for Rebecca and Trey. We'll meet out here at the end of each day for status reports and strategy sessions."

  Scott turned to Bobby, who had been standing by the stairs and observing the interview.

  "Let's go meet the enemy."

  TEN

  Galveston County Criminal District Attorney Rex Truitt focused through his black reading glasses and tied off a big blue squiggly lure. He seemed pleased.

  "Relaxes me."

  "Tying lures?" Scott said.

  "Fishing."

  "Good thing you live on an island."

  The D.A. looked like Ernest Hemingway with a law degree. He was sixty-three years old, burly, and BOI—born on the Island. His unruly hair and neat beard were white against ruddy skin that evidenced a long life lived on that sun-baked stretch of sand, except for seven years in Austin attending college and law school at the University of Texas. He had served as the D.A. for the last twenty-eight years and would retire in two. He wore a white short-sleeve shirt and a solid blue tie loosened at the neck; two thick cigars peeked out of his shirt pocket. The coat to his seersucker suit hung on a rack. He sat behind a wood desk in his wood-paneled office on the first floor of the Galveston County Courts Building; on the desk were a dozen colorful lures and two thick black binders. Photos of the D.A. golfing and fishing hung on the side walls and mounted high on the wall behind him was an eight-foot-long blue sailfish. He presided over an office that employed thirty-nine assistant criminal district attorneys, four investigators, and twenty-five support staff, all working full-time prosecuting criminal defendants in Galveston County, Texas, population 285,000.

  Scott and Bobby sat across the desk from him. Ensconced in a chair along the wall was a tanned young man wearing a slick suit, a silk tie, and shiny shoes. He had a full head of black hair and a sharp face, like a rat. Assistant Criminal District Attorney Theodore Newman had assumed the imperial pose of Michael Corleone in The Godfather after he had taken over the family business.

  Scott had heard Rebecca's story. She swore she was innocent. But the D.A. thought she was guilty. Scott needed to know why.

  "Mr. Truitt—"

  The D.A. eyed Scott over his reading glasses. "Rex. This ain't Dallas."

  "Rex, my client sat in jail for three days—why wasn't she taken before a magistrate?"

  "No probable cause to arrest her."

  "Then why did you?"

  "I didn't. Cops did. I got no jurisdiction until they refer the case over for prosecution, which didn't happen until yesterday afternoon, when they got the prints off the murder weapon back. They're hers, by the way."

  Scott tried not to react, but the D.A. saw through it.

  "She didn't tell you."

  "She didn't know."

  "I'm sure. But we have PC now."

  "Are you going to arrest her again?"

  The D.A. shook his head. "We'll wait for the grand jury to indict. I don't figure she's going anywhere"—another glance over his reading glasses—"is s
he?"

  "No."

  "I have your word?"

  "You have my word."

  "She runs, we'll catch her and she'll sit in jail until that verdict is read."

  "She won't run. She's staying with us."

  "Us?"

  "My family. I rented a beach house for the summer, out on the West End."

  "And your ex is bunking in? There a current Mrs. Fenney?"

  "No."

  "Kids?"

  "Two girls. Eleven."

  "You brought your kids down for a murder trial?"

  Scott shrugged. "Single father."

  The D.A. grunted. "Well, I apologize for the cops jumping the gun. Good ol' boys, they pick up on how to choke-hold a suspect pretty quick at the police academy, but legalities like probable cause, that's a harder grasp for them. But I figured she'd hire a big-time Houston defense lawyer, he'd get her out same day she was arrested."

  "She doesn't have any money. It's all Trey's."

  "Not anymore."

  The D.A. pushed one of the black binders across the desk.

  "That's the murder book, everything we've got so far."

  "How do I know it contains everything yours does?"

  The Assistant D.A. exploded out of his chair. "Mr. Fenney, are you accusing the district attorney of—"

  The D.A. turned to his assistant and put his index finger to his mouth.

  "Shh."

  He turned back to Scott but pointed a thumb at the Assistant D.A.

  "Ted wants my job in two years. Still wet behind the ears, but he'll get it 'cause his granddaddy was the D.A. before me—BOI, old Galveston family. So I've made it my personal duty to spend the next two years teaching Ted here about justice."

  "Rex," Scott said, "I didn't mean it personally."

  "I didn't take it personally. Hell, you'd be a damn fool to trust a D.A. these days, prosecutorial misconduct running rampant—that Duke D.A. hiding evidence, that D.A. up north of Dallas having a secret affair with the judge during a capital murder trial—they still put the guy on death row—that Tulia D.A. convicting forty innocent black people on the lies of one undercover white cop … How many innocent black men convicted up in Dallas have been cleared by DNA tests?"

  "Twenty-five so far. Thirty-eight total in Texas."

  The D.A. shook his head. "You imagine that? Spending ten, twenty years in prison when you're innocent? You think I want that on my gravestone, that I sent innocent people to prison? That's what keeps me up at night, wondering if I prosecuted the right people. If I obtained justice for the victim or perpetrated an injustice on the defendant. It's a solemn responsibility … Ted."

  The D.A. reached over and pulled the binder back to his side of the desk. He then pushed the other binder to Scott.

  "Take mine. Scott, I don't hide evidence to obtain convictions. I enforce the law so I follow the law. And the law says you're entitled to every piece of evidence I've got, so you'll get it. If new evidence is discovered, you'll get it the same day I do."

  "I have your word?"

  "You have my word." He leaned back and crossed his thick arms. "Scott, my job is to see justice done, and I intend to do exactly that. I think that means convicting your wife. But if it means setting her free and convicting someone else, so be it. If you find exculpatory evidence—or if I do—I'll dismiss the charges and apologize to her. Until then, I'm gonna prosecute your wife for the murder of Trey Rawlins."

  "Ex-wife."

  The D.A. grunted. "The grand jury convenes Friday at nine A.M. You find anything that explains why her prints are on the murder weapon, I'll present it to the jury. Fair enough?"

  Scott nodded. "Okay if I attend the hearing?"

  The Assistant D.A. again jumped out of his chair. "Absolutely not! The grand jury is our domain!"

  The D.A. sighed heavily and again turned to his assistant. "Shh." Then he turned back to Scott and scratched his beard. "Not exactly a normal procedure, defense lawyer sitting in on the grand jury hearing. But seeing as how you're a guest on our fair island—and a Texas legend—why not? I'll have to ask the grand jury, but they usually do what I ask."

  He winked. Grand juries always do what district attorneys ask, whether allowing guests at the hearing or handing up indictments.

  "Legend? You mean football?"

  "That, too." The D.A. smiled. "Been seventeen years and I still can't believe you ran for a hundred ninety-three yards against us."

  "We still lost."

  "You should've won."

  "I hear that a lot these days."

  "But I'm talking about that black prostitute's case, Senator McCall's son. Scott, you made me proud to be a lawyer that day."

  "The prosecution lost."

  "Justice won. An innocent person didn't go to prison. Always thought they should've made a movie about that case, get that McConaughey boy to star."

  "But he doesn't look anything like me," Bobby said.

  The D.A. chuckled. To Scott, he said: "How's she doing, your prostitute?"

  "She died two months after the verdict. Heroin overdose."

  "Damn. Sorry to hear that. What happened to her kid? Cute little gal, showed her on TV walking into the courthouse with you."

  "I adopted her."

  That amused the Assistant D.A. "You adopted a black kid? What, you trying to be a saint or something?"

  Scott thought of Pajamae's teeth and shook his head. "Just a father."

  "Ted," the D.A. said, "every time you open your mouth, you embarrass yourself. And me. So make out like that fish on the wall and shut the fuck up." The D.A. exhaled and gathered himself. Then he talked to himself. "Calm down, Rex, this is what they call a 'teachable moment'."

  He removed his reading glasses and swiveled in his chair to face his assistant.

  "See, Ted, two summers back while you were trying to pass the bar exam for the third time, Mr. Fenney was defending a poor black woman accused of murdering the son of a U.S. senator, the most powerful man in Congress and the leading presidential candidate. Now most lawyers would've folded under the pressure, taken a dive to save their career. But he didn't. He defended her against the federal government and proved her innocent—and sacrificed his career and wife in the process. So you shouldn't be smirking at him, Ted, 'cause that makes you look stupid and it makes me look stupid 'cause I hired you. You should be learning from him … what it means to be a lawyer."

  He swiveled back to Scott.

  "Young people today, they got no sense of respect. Don't know if I can teach Ted respect in just two years, but I'm damn sure gonna try."

  Scott snuck a glance at Ted. The D.A.'s reprimand had had no visible effect on his assistant; it was clearly not the first nor would it be the last. Theodore Newman was not yet thirty but he was already convinced of his place in the world, just as A. Scott Fenney had once been. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Bobby smacking his gum.

  "You're smacking again, Bobby."

  Bobby looked up. "Oh. Sorry." To the others: "Trying to quit cigarettes."

  "Try cigars," the D.A. said.

  He pulled a cigar from his pocket and tossed it to Bobby.

  "Cuban, but don't tell the FBI."

  "What's your proof, Rex?" Scott said.

  "The guy I buy them from is from Cuba, he gets 'em from—"

  "That Rebecca killed Trey."

  "Oh. Proof is, your wife was found in the bedroom with the victim, she was covered in his blood, and her fingerprints were on the murder weapon which was still conveniently stuck in his chest."

  "That's all?"

  "That's usually enough."

  The D.A. removed a set of keys from a desk drawer and tossed them to his assistant, who got up and scurried out of sight like a cockroach under a dresser.

  "Motive?" Scott said.

  "I've pretty much ruled out suicide."

  "Rex, you've got to prove motive, means, and opportunity."

  "Hell, I got two out of three." The D.A. smiled. "But this kind of
murder is usually committed because of love or hate or money."

  "She lost everything when he died."

  "Life insurance?"

  "None. No joint bank accounts, and there's no will. Everything goes to his sister."

  "You talk to Melvyn?"

  "He sent a letter to Rebecca, at the jail."

  The D.A. nodded. "Melvyn's prompt like that. Maybe they had a fight, your wife and Trey."

  "Any evidence of a struggle?"

  The D.A. shook his head. "Maybe there was another woman."

  "He asked her to marry him … that night."

  "So she said."

  "She told you?"

  "She gave a statement."

  "I told her not to talk to the cops."

  "She gave it before you called. Voluntarily. It's in the book."

  "Did she confess?"

  "Nope."

  "She cooperated?"

  "Yep."

  "Do killers cooperate?"

  "Only the dumb ones."

  "She called nine-one-one. That seem unusual, for a killer to call the cops?"

  "Somewhat."

  "Anything of value missing?"

  "Not that we know of."

  "Did the cops give her a chance to check?"

  "Nope."

  "So motive could've been robbery?"

  "Except for her prints on the knife. Butcher. Eight-inch blade."

  "Did you trace ownership?"

  The D.A. nodded. "To their kitchen. Matched set. Which qualifies as 'means'."

  "A kitchen knife? She probably put her prints on it cutting a steak."

  The Assistant D.A. returned carrying a big clasp envelope. He handed it to the D.A. then resumed his position along the wall. The D.A. put on his reading glasses, released the clasp, and removed a large plastic bag. Inside the bag was a long knife.

  "Except her prints aren't aligned on the knife that way, like she was cutting something. They're aligned this way—"

  The D.A. grasped the handle through the plastic with the blade pointing down.

  —"like she was stabbing someone."

  The D.A. held the knife out to Scott. He hesitated a moment—he had held a murder weapon once before, the gun that had killed Clark McCall, but not the bullet that had actually cut a hole through his brain and ended his life—then took the knife. There was still blood on the blade. He tried to block out the image that flashed through his mind of Rebecca holding this knife as the D.A. had and driving the sharp blade into Trey Rawlins' chest. He raised his eyes to the D.A. and knew that his mind was displaying the same image. There was a moment of silence as they regarded each other, the D.A. assessing Scott's reaction to the murder weapon bearing his ex-wife's fingerprints, Scott trying to hide his thoughts of a jury returning a "guilty" verdict in The State of Texas vs. Rebecca Fenney. He placed on the desk the knife that had cut a hole in Trey Rawlins' chest and ended his life.