Accused (12 page)

"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 and 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—"

"He had guns?"

"This is Texas, Scott—everyone has guns." Hank chuckled. "Magnum was found under his pillow. Loaded. Not sure how he could sleep with that thing under his head."

"If she wanted to kill him, why didn't she just shoot him?"

Hank shrugged. "Ask her."

"Anything else removed from the house?"

"His wallet, cell phone, cash, jewelry, and laptop. We're checking calls, emails, websites he frequented, fan mail to his website. I'll get you copies of everything."

They climbed stairs from the garage floor to the second story. Hank unlocked a door, and Scott entered the house where his wife had lived with another man. Scott tamped down his rising emotions and scolded himself:
Think like a lawyer, not like a man.

"Maid came twice a week," Hank said. "Mondays and Thursdays. She was here that day."

They followed Hank into a kitchen with a stained concrete floor and stainless steel appliances, cabinets, and countertops. Scott put on his glasses—he used to wear them just to appear smart to his rich clients; now, after sixteen years of reading the law, he actually needed them—and opened the murder book. He found the photos and evidence collection report for the kitchen.

"No blood was found in the kitchen?"

"Nope. But we got prints—his, hers, the maid's, and one unidentified set. Right there." Hank pointed to a spot on the island counter where black fingerprint dust marred the shiny steel finish. "Full hand prints. We figure male, and a big man from the size. He must've been leaning onto the counter."

"You run them?"

Hank nodded. "No match. He's not in the system."

Hank pulled a drawer open. Inside were seven steel knives in a tray with molded spaces for eight knives. The biggest space was empty.

"Murder weapon," Hank said. "Butcher knife. Her prints are on it."

"So Rex said. Would you open all the drawers and cabinets?"

Hank did, and Bobby filmed everything. "Nice liquor cabinet. Trey liked the good stuff."

"And the refrigerator, Hank."

It was a double-wide with a freezer drawer below. Hank held the door open while Bobby squatted and filmed the contents and narrated.

"Beer … a bottle of wine … protein bars … lots of chocolate milk … and the biggest watermelon I've ever seen."

Scott put his hands on his knees and peered into the refrigerator. The watermelon occupied one entire shelf. It had been split in half, lengthwise. The red pulp lay exposed like brain matter.

"Just the way we found it," Hank said. "Nothing's been touched."

The kitchen opened onto a living room with leather furniture, a fireplace, a flat-screen television on the wall, and a bank of windows that offered a stunning view of the beach and sea. Scott's mind conjured up scenes from Rebecca's life here, with another man, the same scenes he had played over and over the last two years, like reruns of his favorite show. Now he had the actual setting for those scenes. His emotions rose again, so he consciously forced himself to focus on his job as her lawyer instead of his regrets as her husband.

Think like a lawyer, not like a man.

"No evidence was collected from the living room," Hank said. "Let's go upstairs first, then we'll come back down to the crime scene. You might need some fresh air after that."

They climbed a set of stairs to the third floor which had two guest bedrooms and baths and a home theater. No evidence had been discovered or collected from any of the third-floor rooms, so Hank led them up another set of stairs to the pilothouse.

"Trey's office."

Wood-framed windows surrounded the space. The street was visible out the front, the beach and sea out the back. The room was wood and leather with a wet bar. Golf trophies crowded shelves, and photos of Trey with other famous golfers and framed golf magazines with Trey on the covers hung on the walls. In one corner three putters stood against the wall and balls waited below on a putting mat that ran the length of the room, as if Trey had practiced his putting that morning. In another corner sat a massive white golf bag with
Trey Rawlins
in black script down the side.

"You go through the bag?" Scott asked.

"Nothing except golf balls and condoms."

"
Condoms?
"

Hank shrugged. "For the rain delays, I guess."

"I'd hate to drag that bag up those stairs," Bobby said.

"He didn't have to." Hank went over to the wood wall and opened a closet—except it wasn't a closet. It was a dumb waiter big enough for a pro golf bag—or a human being. Hank pushed a button inside the door; the elevator slowly descended.

"Opens down in the garage," Hank said. "No prints, no blood."

"The killer could have entered the house that way."

"She didn't have to, Scott. She lived here."