Accused Page 8

  "Did you know him?"

  The D.A. nodded. "Since the day he was born. I grew up with his dad. His folks were killed six years ago, drunk driver crossed over, hit them on the highway. Devastated the boy, he was real close to his folks, especially his dad … golf pro out at the club, taught Trey how to play. Took the boy a few years to pull himself together, but he did. I was real proud of him."

  Scott turned to the Assistant D.A. "You're about Trey's age. Did you know him?"

  The Assistant D.A. shook his head. "He was a year older than me. We didn't run in the same circles. He was a star athlete. I wasn't."

  The D.A. aimed a thumb at his assistant. "Drama club."

  "Did Trey use drugs?"

  "She say he did dope?"

  "No. I'm just asking. He was of that age."

  "Oh. Well, he drank pretty hard after his folks died, but he got that under control when he started golfing again. But dope? No way. Nothing was found at the home, and if Trey was a doper, I would've known it. We know every dealer on the Island and we watch them. It's a small island."

  The D.A. exhaled and ran his hand through his hair.

  "Trey was a real good boy. Started that foundation for kids, donated a million bucks for Ike recovery, hung out at the club when he wasn't on tour, taught kids, played with the members … hell, he even tried to fix my golf swing—course, that would've required surgery." The D.A. paused. "Scott, don't tear him down."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, standard defense tactic these days is to put the victim on trial, drag his life through the mud, make the jury think he deserved to die—like the killer did society a favor."

  "I don't do that."

  "Good. 'Cause he was our hero."

  A. Scott Fenney knew something about being a hero. He knew people wanted their heroes, but their heroes were just people—with all the faults of other people. And when those faults are revealed—as they always are—the people come down hard on their heroes.

  "Was sand recovered from the bed or his body?"

  The D.A. seemed surprised by that question. "Matter of fact. Why?"

  "They had sex on the beach that night."

  The D.A. shrugged. "One of the advantages of living on the Island."

  "Maybe, but why would she kill him right after having sex?"

  The Assistant D.A. chuckled and said, "Maybe she didn't have an orgasm."

  The D.A. grimaced then pointed a finger at the sailfish on the wall.

  "Be the fish, Ted." To Scott: "You gonna introduce that at trial, the sex on the beach? Your wife and another man?"

  "Goes to motive, like you said."

  The D.A. removed his reading glasses. "You know, thirty-eight years of practicing law, I figured I'd pretty much seen it all. But a lawyer defending his ex charged with murdering the man she left him for? Scott, that ain't normal. Lawyers don't do that. Hell, men don't do that. Why are you doing that? Why are you defending your wife?"

  "I don't want my daughter to visit her mother in prison."

  "You might be the best lawyer in Texas, Scott, but you're not the only lawyer in Texas."

  "I'm the best she can afford."

  "There's always the public defender."

  "Like I said, I don't want my daughter visiting her mother in prison."

  "But have you thought this through? The downside for you? What this case could do to your reputation? After what you did in the McCall case, I'd hate to see you become a …"

  "Punch line?"

  An empathetic nod from the D.A.

  "Better I end up a punch line that she end up a prison inmate."

  "Well, you're a better man than me."

  "Or crazier."

  "Or that. Don't believe I could defend my ex, not after what she did to me."

  His eyes showed that his thoughts had gone to another place and time. Scott tried to snap him back to the moment.

  "She said the cops asked her to take a polygraph."

  "What?" The D.A. was back in the present. "Oh, yeah, but you called, told the cops to lay off. But the invitation's still open."

  "Will you drop the charges if she passes?"

  "Will she plead guilty if she fails?"

  They both knew that polygraphs were inadmissible in a court of law. And the D.A. knew Scott wasn't about to submit his client to a polygraph because it would only hurt her; the D.A. would never dismiss charges on a polygraph, not with her prints on the murder weapon. And a failed test would be made public, taint the jury pool. There was no upside to Rebecca's taking a polygraph test: it might be ninety-five percent reliable, but that other five percent could get her life in prison.

  "Motive, Rex—why would she do it?"

  "I don't know. But it'll come out. Always does. There's always a reason for one human being to kill another. Might be a stupid reason, but there's a reason."

  "You really think she stabbed him then slept in his blood?"

  "You really think she slept through his murder? Someone came into that room and stabbed him while she was sleeping right next to him, and she didn't wake up?"

  "She said they were drinking pretty hard at Gaido's."

  "Which means she could have killed him then passed out next to him. Or maybe she lay in his blood to raise just such a question."

  "That seem reasonable to you?"

  "Scott, we had a murder case down here where the wife caught her husband with his mistress in a hotel parking lot so she hit him with her car then circled the lot and ran over him three more times. Big Mercedes-Benz sedan with the V-8. And we had those three astronauts in that love-triangle case—female astronaut drove from Houston to Florida to kill another female astronaut, wore a diaper so she could drive straight through. When it comes to love, nothing's reasonable. Or unreasonable."

  "My wife wears a diaper now," Bobby said as if to himself. After a moment of the awkward silence that followed, he looked up and saw everyone looking at him. He shrugged. "She's pregnant. Bladder issues."

  The D.A. grunted.

  "You got anything, Bobby?" Scott said. "Other than the diaper update?"

  "Autopsy report?"

  The D.A. pointed at the binder. "In the book. Preliminary report, anyway. Cause of death was sharp force injury. Knife severed his aorta. He bled out."

  "Toxicology?"

  "Pending."

  "DNA?"

  "Also pending."

  "Can we see the crime scene?"

  The D.A. nodded. "Figured you'd want to see it, so we left it exactly as we found it, except for the body. When?"

  "Now."

  "I'll have my investigator open the house for you." The D.A. put his reading glasses on, picked up his phone, and dialed. He spoke into the phone. "Hank? Rex. Meet Scott Fenney and Bobby Herrin at the Rawlins house … Yeah, they're representing the Fenney woman … His ex … That's what I said … Give him full access … Now." He hung up. "You'll like Hank. Ex-FBI, worked the Drug Task Force down on the border. Retired here, for the fishing. I talked him into working for me."

  "Why can't Rebecca get back into her house?" Scott asked.

  "It's not her house."

  "She lived there."

  The D.A. turned his palms up. "Take it up with Melvyn and the sister."

  "Who's the judge on this case?"

  "Shelby Morgan. Forty, attractive, single."

  "Attractive?"

  "Shelby's a gal … and ambitious—never a good trait in a judge, male or female. But she's BOI, from an old-line family, like Ted here, so she's our judge. She wants to move up, been waiting for a case like this for years, something with potential."

  "For what?"

  "Publicity. This case could be her stepping stone."

  "Great."

  The D.A. chuckled. "You'll like her … about as much as hemorrhoids. Speaking of which, I need to warn you."

  "What about?"

  "Renée Ramirez. Houston TV reporter, she covers the Galveston beat. Good-looking gal, but annoying as hell. She's an IBC�
��Islander by choice. BOIs don't trust IBCs."

  "I dodged her at the jail yesterday."

  The D.A. nodded. "She's a looker, ain't she? Got the body of a Playmate and the bite of a pit bull. And she's got her teeth into this case, been calling every day. I don't try my cases in the press, Scott, so she won't get anything from this office. But she's been pining for a network job, might see this case as her ticket, so watch out for her."

  "The American way, everyone using a murder case to move up in the world." Scott shook his head. "What about her clothes?"

  "Oh, Renée dresses real nice—tight pants, short skirts—she's got great legs and—"

  "Not her clothes. Rebecca's."

  "Oh."

  "Can we take them?"

  The D.A. nodded. "Just let Hank watch what you take."

  "What about her makeup?"

  "Isn't there a law says a woman's entitled to makeup?"

  "Jewelry?"

  "Talk to Melvyn."

  "Thanks, Rex."

  The D.A. nodded then said, "Scott, you ever been to a murder scene?"

  "No."

  "Well … it ain't like on TV."

  Scott picked up the murder book and stood. He and Bobby walked to the door, but Scott turned back and said, "There's a good explanation."

  "For what?"

  "Her prints on the knife."

  "I'd like to hear that explanation … when you figure it out."

  "She's the only suspect?"

  The D.A. gestured at the bloody butcher knife on the desk. "Only her prints on the murder weapon."

  "She didn't have a motive to murder. You know anyone who did?"

  "Who'd want to kill Trey?"

  "Rex—that's what I intend to find out."

  ELEVEN

  "Trey Rawlins was the Island's favorite son—he's dead and you're defending your ex-wife who killed him, but you want the senator to make you a federal judge?"

  "She didn't kill him."

  "They arrested her."

  "She's innocent until proven guilty."

  "If you say so."

  "I don't, Ken—the Constitution does."

  When Mack McCall had died, the governor appointed a state legislator from Galveston to serve out his term. U.S. Senator George Armstrong would decide if Scott would become U.S. District Judge A. Scott Fenney. The senator's aide, Ken Ingram, had called Scott on their way out of the courthouse. Judge Buford had not wasted any time; he had already put Scott's name in the hat for his federal bench. So Bobby was driving the Jetta to the crime scene while Scott talked to Ken on his cell phone.

  "Won't help your cause, Scott, you and your ex in the tabloids and on TV every night. Jesus, they're making you out a moron can't get over his wife on the cable talk shows. That shit won't play well in the Senate chamber."

  "I'm defending my wife—how many senators are cheating on theirs?"

  Ken chuckled. "Young women are a perk of higher office, Scott, like limos and better health care. And that's the difference—they're already in office. You're not."

  "She's entitled to competent counsel. That's also in the Constitution."

  "Voters don't read the Constitution, Scott. They read the newspapers. Well, some still do, but the others watch TV. And this case sounds like a goddamned soap opera. Renée's gonna have a fucking field day."

  "It's not my job to worry about the press, Ken."

  "Well, it is my job, Scott." He breathed heavily into the phone. "The senator's gonna be in town next weekend, wants to meet you for dinner Saturday night. I'll call you with the details."

  Ken disconnected without saying goodbye.

  "I guess there's no sense in reading the federal government's employee benefits manual yet," Bobby said.

  "Might want to hold off for now."

  "You gonna be okay with that? If she costs you the judgeship?"

  "I have options."

  "Ford Fenney?"

  "Name partner, I could hire you and Karen and Carlos. I'd have to figure out something for Louis."

  "We don't want that life, and neither do you."

  "I failed her before, Bobby. I can't fail her again."

  "First thing, Scotty, you didn't fail her—she left you and Boo. And second thing, don't let a guilt trip ruin your life."

  "She'd never make it in prison, Bobby. She'd give up and die." Scott stared out the window at the sea. "We're her only hope."

  They drove the rest of the way in silence.

  Two miles beyond their rented beach house on San Luis Pass Road where the Island narrows down to just a finger of sand separating the Gulf of Mexico on their left from Galveston Bay on their right, past beach-front subdivisions called Indian Beach and Pirates Beach and Jamaica Beach and Palm Beach and Sunny Beach, they turned into a subdivision—"Lafitte's Beach - The Treasure of the West End"—situated atop the earthen dune Scott had seen from the beach that morning. It had once been a high-end, palm-tree-lined neighborhood, but most of the homes had been reduced to stilts. The developer's attempt to tame the sea had failed. Ike's surge had crested the dune and taken the houses out to sea.

  But not Trey Rawlins' house. It fronted the beach but appeared undamaged. Scott had seen the beach side of the stark white house that morning; now he saw the street side. Two palm trees stood guard out front; the driveway led to four garage doors. Stairs on both sides led to a veranda and the front entrance on the second floor, above which was another story with a pilothouse at the top. Bobby parked at the curb and cut the engine. They stared at the house on Treasure Isle Lane where Trey Rawlins' life had ended.

  "Scotty, her prints on the murder weapon—that ain't good."

  "I've been blindsided before, but Rex, he's a sly dog, tying off a lure then dropping that bombshell like he's asking if we wanted coffee, see how we'd react."

  "Well, I damn near shit my pants."

  "He'll never prove motive."

  "He won't have to, not with her prints on the knife. Jury'll look past motive real fast. If we're gonna win this case, Scotty, we gotta do two things: explain how her prints got on that knife and put someone else on trial."

  "Whoever stuck that knife in Trey Rawlins."

  "If she didn't."

  "She didn't."

  "Scotty, don't forget the first rule when representing a corporate executive or a criminal defendant."

  "Assume they're lying?"

  "Exactly."

  "She's not." He hoped. "You ready?"

  "Are you?"

  "No, but I've got to go in. You don't."

  Bobby blew out a big breath. "What does Pajamae always say? Man up?"

  They manned up and got out. The wind off the Gulf was hard and hot. A police cruiser and an unmarked car were also parked out front. A tall, lanky man emerged from the unmarked car and walked over. He was wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, jeans, and a cap that read "Galveston County D.A.'s Office." He looked like Jimmy Buffett with a gun.

  "Hank Kowalski. I'm the D.A.'s investigator."

  They made introductions, then Hank waved a hand at what was left of the neighborhood. "Used to be million-dollar places. Now you can buy this sand for a song. Before Ike, New York Times likened the Island to the Hamptons. No one's calling it the Hamptons now."

  "They're not going to rebuild?"

  "Most were second homes owned by out-of-towners. They just said to hell with it, took their insurance money somewhere it don't flood."

  Five homes had once stood on that stretch of the beach; now two did, Trey's and another house under repair just a hundred yards down the street where the sound of hammers hitting nails reverberated like guns at a firing range.

  "Judge Morgan's place," Hank said. "She's staying in town until it's fixed up."

  Brown-skinned workers scrambled over the high roof of the judge's home with no apparent worries about falling forty feet to the sand below. With the three houses in between washed away, the workers would have had an unobstructed line of sight to the Rawlins house. They would have seen Trey an
d Rebecca coming and going.

  "They didn't see anything," Hank said.

  "But did they do anything?" Scott said.

  "We asked, they denied … in Spanish."

  "Illegals?"

  "You know any American citizens who'll roof homes in this heat?"

  "Did Trey's house sustain any damage?"

  "Nope." Hank pointed toward the beach. "Those piers are twenty-five feet above the sand. Water never got up to the house. Heard he spent four million on this place, one million just on hurricane-proofing, but it worked. Ike packed a hundred-ten-miles-per-hour wind, didn't blow a shingle off this place. Come on, I'll give you a tour."

  "Okay if we videotape?"

  "Rex said whatever you wanted." Hank reached to his back pocket then held out latex gloves. "Wear these—but don't touch nothing."

  They all put gloves on. Bobby retrieved the camcorder and the murder book from the car. He handed the book to Scott. Bobby filmed the exterior of the house, then they ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and followed Hank into the garage through a side door. Hank hit a switch; fluorescent light flooded the vast space where a dune buggy, two jet skis, a BMW racing motorcycle, a black Hummer, a red Corvette convertible, and a black Bentley were parked.

  "Man liked his toys," Hank said. "Trey motored around the Island on the bike or in the Bentley. Two hundred grand. Your wife drove the Corvette."

  Scott could picture Rebecca Fenney driving that Corvette with the top down and a smile on her face, her red hair whipping in the wind, enjoying the envious glances from pedestrians.

  "She mentioned a yacht."

  Hank nodded. "Down at the marina. We searched it. Nothing. Come on, let's go up. Everything's the same as that night, except for the crime scene processing."

  "Nothing's been removed?"

  "The body, a three-fifty-seven Magnum revolver, a nine-millimeter Beretta—"