Accused (45 page)

"What's that?"

"Rebecca's got to testify, tell the jury she didn't kill him … and explain why her prints were on the murder weapon."

Scott's cell phone rang. He answered.

"Scott, it's Rex. Can you come over?"

"When?"

"Now."

On the computer screen, the black-and-white video showed the front entrance to a building Scott recognized. Two Latino thugs bookended the front doors under an awning. A dark Corvette pulled up at the curb, and a dark-haired woman got out and walked to the entrance. The thugs did not block her way; instead, one thug held the door open for her. She gave him a little wave as she disappeared inside.

"Like I said, Feds got Benito's place under surveillance twenty-four/seven," the D.A. said. "Black and white tape, they didn't put the woman and the car together."

"She said she didn't know Benito."

"She knows him now."

"You figure she bought cocaine from him?"

"He doesn't sell designer shoes."

"She's broke. How'd she pay for it?"

The D.A. averted his eyes then fast-forwarded the video until Rebecca reappeared in the doorway. She got into the car and drove off. Scott gathered himself and stood, but the D.A. said, "I've got more evidence to share."

Scott saw on the D.A.'s face that this wasn't going to be pleasant.

"My tech man, he's been poking around Trey's laptop, hacking through firewalls and whatever you call that security stuff, and he found some videos. Trey and women. Homemade porn."

Dr. Tim had said Trey had made sex tapes. The D.A. could not make eye contact with Scott.

"Rebecca?"

Still no eye contact.

"I'm sorry, Scott."

Scott stood and walked to the door and grabbed the handle.

"Scott, it's evidence. I'm obliged to give you copies."

"I don't want them."

Scott Fenney was thinking like a man as he shut the door behind him.

FORTY

The next morning at first light, Scott dressed in running shorts and shoes and went downstairs. Boo was already watching a cable show called
I, Carly
.

"It's appropriate," she said.

"I'll be back in an hour," he said. "We'll have breakfast."

She turned her eyes up to the clock on the wall. "Okay. See you back at exactly seven-thirty-seven."

Scott went outside and down the deck stairs then hit the sand. He headed west. He was alone on the beach and with his thoughts. Eleven years they had lived together, slept together, and had sex together, but he had never really known her. He knew now that he would never really know her. Expensive clothes and jewelry—he knew that Rebecca Fenney. But not the Rebecca Fenney who snorted cocaine and starred in sex tapes. Who was that woman?

He hadn't known his own wife.

And he didn't know his ex-wife.

That day the girls said she had left wearing her black wig and returned really happy, it hadn't been chocolate, shopping, or sex—it had been cocaine. She had gone to Benito's and bought cocaine. She had come home happy because she was high. Scott had confronted her last night. She swore she had used cocaine because of the stress of the pending trail and that she had paid Benito with her jewelry. She swore she had not found the mob money. Just as she had sworn she did not know Benito Estrada and did not kill Trey Rawlins.

Scott did not mention the sex tapes. But Renée Ramirez had on the evening news.

"Sex, drugs, and videotapes. Tonight, a 'Murder on the Beach' update. I've learned that the trial will reveal many salacious details about the lives of Trey Rawlins and his lover, Rebecca Fenney, on trial for his murder, including sex tapes. I've also learned that her ex-husband"—she gave her audience a sly grin—"I mean, her lawyer, has subpoenaed several professional golfers to testify at trial, including Pete Puckett, the reigning U.S. Open champion. You won't want to miss this. I will host the trial beginning Monday morning, from opening statements until the verdict is read."

Scott soon arrived at the white house rising from the beach. He stopped and stared up at the second-story deck that led into the master bedroom where Trey Rawlins had died. If she were capable of cocaine and sex tapes, was she capable of murder? Had she lied to him about that, too? Was Rebecca Fenney the Guilty Groupie?

Louis went downstairs to the kitchen. Consuela was just stirring with the baby, and Carlos was rustling up his regular breakfast of chocolate milk and Cheerios. Pajamae was watching cartoons. Everyone else was sleeping in. Boo was standing outside on the deck in her swimsuit. Louis slid the glass door open and stepped outside. The sea breeze brought the smell of the ocean to him. He liked breathing the sea air, living on the beach. Maybe one day he would. After college. He walked to the far railing where Boo stood. She was staring out at the sea and gripping the railing real tight with both hands like she was afraid she might fall overboard. She did not turn away from the sea, so he talked to the top of her head.

"What're you looking for, Boo?"

"A. Scott."

"Mr. Fenney out running?"

"What time is it, Louis?"

Louis looked at his watch. "Quarter past eight. Something wrong?"

"He didn't come back. He said he'd be back in an hour."

"What time did he leave?"

"Six-thirty-seven."

"Maybe he's running slow 'cause it's Saturday."

"Not A. Scott."

"You want I should go look for him?"

"Yes, please."

She now turned to him. Tears were rolling down her little face.

"Louis, I think he had a heart attack."

"Which way did he run down the beach?"

"I don't know."

Louis walked back toward the house and shouted, "Carlos!"

Carlos came outside with a red plastic bowl of Cheerios floating in brown milk.

"Yeah, bro?"

"You got your phone?"

"Yep."

Louis pointed east. "You go looking down the beach that way." Louis then pointed west. "I'm going looking this way."

"What are we looking for?"

"Mr. Fenney."

Carlos's face got sharp. He tossed the bowl over the railing and ran down the stairs. Louis was right behind him. Carlos cut left and Louis right. Boo had not budged from her place at the railing.

Louis Wright weighed three hundred thirty pounds, but he often surprised folks by how fast he could run and for how long. When he was sixteen and weighed only two-thirty, he had run track in high school. Two hundred and four hundred meters. He could move it for a big boy.

Still, he had to slow down after a mile.

Another mile, he saw a big white house gleaming in the sun and down on the beach, the tide lapping over a clump of something. Looked like a big brown dog curled up on the sand like road kill … or maybe some kind of brown sack full of something … or maybe …

Mr. Fenney.
Oh, sweet Jesus
. He did have a heart attack.

Louis ran full-out until he got to him. Louis pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial for Carlos. When he answered, Louis said, "I found him. Come my way. And Carlos … run."

Louis pushed the phone back into his pocket then dropped to his knees. Mr. Fenney's skin felt wet and cold to the touch. A sand crab crawled across his back. Louis flicked the crab away, then rolled him over to see if he was still breathing but he saw … blood.
Shit.
He didn't have no heart attack. He got beat up. Bad. Louis leaned over and put his ear to Mr. Fenney's bare chest. His heart was beating. Slowly. He was still alive.

Most folks figured Louis was older because black men look older when they're young and younger when they're old. In fact, Louis Wright was only thirty years old. But he had already seen a lifetime of violent crime down in the projects of South Dallas. Folks shot point-blank with handguns and short-barreled shotguns, stabbed with screwdrivers, ice picks, and knives of all sizes, makes, and models, beaten to death with baseball bats, tire irons, crowbars, bricks, and even a carburetor from a 357-cubic-inch Chevy engine. Mr. Fenney's face was cut and bruised and bloody, but Louis could find no mortal wound. Someone had beaten him mercilessly, but with fists.

A tear dropped from Louis Wright's eye onto Mr. Fenney's tanned skin.

He slipped his arms under Mr. Fenney like a forklift and stood with this man in his arms. This man who had opened his arms and his Highland Park home to him, just as if Louis Wright's skin wasn't black and he wasn't from South Dallas. This man who had given him books and a second chance at life. This man who Louis loved like the father he never had. Carlos came running up.

"
Shit.
What happened?"

"Someone beat him bad."

"Is he alive?"

"He is."

"Here, Louis, I'll help you."

"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.