Accused (24 page)

Carlos wore work clothes and work boots but looked no worse for the wear after a week on the roofing job when he climbed the back stairs to the deck where Scott was sitting. Rebecca had wanted some time alone on the beach. Carlos plopped down in a chair.

"Why not?"

"They're illegals, up here for the work. But a couple of 'em, they got gang tatts. Bad dudes. They'd slice you up for smokes. And they saw the rich dude and the red-haired woman coming and going."

"So why don't you think they did it?"

" 'Cause after killing him, they would've raped her and then killed her and stolen everything in the place and probably torched the house then made a run for the border. These are not criminal masterminds, boss."

He held up a big plastic bag with five beer bottles inside.

"Still, I got their prints."

"Give those to Bobby. Good work, Carlos. And thanks, I know that wasn't fun."

Carlos held up several green bills. "Hey, I made twenty-five bucks."

"An hour?"

"A day."

Carlos stood and started to the sliding glass door but turned back.

"Oh, boss, those workers, they saw another woman down there, at the house."

"When?"

"Same day he was killed. A blonde girl. And a man—a big man."

TWENTY

Billie Jean was blonde, and Pete was big.

If Scott could obtain their fingerprints and prove they were in the Rawlins house the day Trey was murdered, he could establish (a) motive—Trey was having sex with Pete's seventeen-year-old daughter, (b) means—the knife was in the kitchen drawer, and (c) opportunity—if those were Pete's prints on the counter, that would confirm his presence in the kitchen that day. He could have taken the butcher knife from the drawer and stabbed Trey Rawlins. With that evidence, the D.A. might dismiss the indictment against Rebecca Fenney and ask the grand jury to indict Pete Puckett. So Scott had returned to the tournament the next afternoon to find Pete and Billie Jean Puckett, but he had found Nick Madden instead.

"Look, Legend," Nick was saying into his cell phone, "you gotta play one year at UT then you can go pro, okay? 'One and done,' that's the NBA rule. Hell, you don't even have to go to classes. The tutors will get you through the first semester, then once the season starts, you just play basketball. When the season ends in March, you can bail, wait for the draft … and that big check. Until then, hook 'em horns, baby."

He disconnected and shook his head at Scott.

"High school player."

"He already thinks he's a legend?"

"No, that's his real name. Legend. Kid's six-ten, top basketball prospect in the state, but he doesn't want to play even one year of college ball. Wants to go straight to the pros. He asked me, Mr. Madden, what am I gonna major in? Like he's gonna major in pre-med. I said, pre-NBA. Kid can't balance a checkbook, but he'll be worth fifty million time he's twenty."

Nick was standing by the putting green drinking a beer. It was Saturday, the third round of the tournament.

"Where's Pete?" Scott said.

"Austin. Withdrew, drove home with Billie Jean yesterday."

"He's running scared."

"I guess he's the prime suspect now?"

"He threatened to kill Trey in front of a witness a week before he was murdered. That'd make him the prime suspect."

"They're flying up to New York on Monday, for the Open next week. Don't know why he's wasting his money, he doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of even making the cut. They'll be in San Antonio the week after that."

"I could drive up to his house in Austin tomorrow."

Nick shook his head. "Don't even think about it, Scott."

"Why not?"

"Because Pete's a big hunter." He chuckled. "They did one of those 'Getting to Know the Player' segments on a network broadcast last year, with Pete. Now the other guys, they introduce mama and the kids, give the viewing audience a tour of their mansion and trophy room, their ten-car garage filled with sports cars, that sort of thing. Not Pete. He takes the reporter and cameraman deer hunting on his place, blows Bambi's head clean off, then field dresses the fucking deer on national TV. Takes his big ol' knife and guts that animal like he's slicing a Thanksgiving turkey. Got blood all over him, made me want to throw up."

"Pete's good with a knife, huh?"

Nick's expression turned thoughtful. "Yeah. Real good. Guns, too. You go on his land without an invite, Scott, he's liable to shoot, shovel, and shut up. Safer to wait till San Antonio, at least as safe as it's ever gonna be with Pete."

"You finished with that beer?"

Nick turned the bottle up then said, "I am now."

Scott held a baggie open. Nick looked from his beer bottle to the baggie to Scott.

"You think I killed Trey?"

"No."

"Why do you want my prints?"

"So I can cross you off the suspect list."

Nick dropped the bottle into the baggie.

"You do that."

"Have you ever been arrested, indicted or convicted of a felony?"

"No, Senator, I haven't."

Senator George Armstrong had greeted Scott with a handshake and a criminal background check. They were having dinner at Gaido's, a Galveston landmark because of the blue crab the size of a small car perched atop the roof as if waiting to snag an unsuspecting diner with its huge claws. A sign read "Caught in Galveston Bay."

"Good. Last year I nominated a guy to head up the Drug Enforcement Agency. FBI fingerprinted him, ran a background check, turns out he had been arrested six times back in college, for drugs. Pretty goddamn embarrassing. Like Obama's Treasury Secretary—guy runs the IRS but didn't pay thirty-four thousand in taxes."

Scott followed the maitre d' and the senator—who glad-handed every person of voting age in the place—into the main dining room and over to a table by the window with a nice view of the beach across the seawall. Gaido's was an elegant place featuring wood accents, real tablecloths, waiters in black waistcoats and bowties, and the aroma of fried seafood. Ken Ingram, the senator's aide, had called Scott just as he was leaving the golf tournament and asked him to join the senator for dinner—"And if you want to be a federal judge, you'd better be there." So Scott had braved the big blue crab and entered the restaurant.

"Boy, we took a big hit with Ike," the senator said. "Seventy-five percent of all homes flooded, three billion in damages here on the Island, twenty-nine billion total … but like we say, 'It's an ill wind that blows no good.' "

"What was the good of Hurricane Ike?"

"Destroyed all the public housing on the Island. Our poor folks are gone."

"You're not going to rebuild the public housing?"

"If you build it, they will come … back. If you don't, they won't."

"Where will they live?"

"Somewhere else. Wherever they're living now. Austin, maybe. Bunch of goddamned bleeding heart liberals, I'd like to ship every poor person in Texas to Austin, see how much they care then. See, Scott, the public housing crowd, they were holding the Island back—welfare, drugs, crime, test scores dragging down our school system—just like South Dallas is holding Dallas back. Imagine if one day Dallas woke up and South Dallas was gone. Well, that's what Ike did for us, washed 'em all away. All our problems are gone with the wind … and water. Now we can transform the Island into another Hamptons like we always wanted. A nice place for rich white folks."

"Maybe you could put up a gate on this side of the causeway, make the entire Island a gated community."

The senator frowned. "You know, that's not a bad idea."

"I was joking."

"Oh. Still …"

The senator was rich and white. His hair was gray and perfect. He was in his late fifties and wore slacks and a short-sleeve island shirt. Scott had seen him numerous times on the Sunday morning political talk shows. Senator George Armstrong was handsome, articulate, and a leading voice of the Republican Party. He ordered a gin-and-tonic, folded his hands on the table, and said, "You know, Scott, when Ken told me you were representing your ex-wife who's charged with murdering the man she ran off with, I said exactly the same thing I said when I first heard that McCain picked Palin for his VP."

"What's that?"

" '
What the hell was he thinking?
'
" The senator chuckled. "Men just don't think straight when it comes to women, do we?"

"She's innocent."

"No doubt. But Palin cost McCain the White House. You want your wife to cost you the federal bench? You lose this case in my hometown, Scott, I won't be able to back you even if Sam Buford does think you're the best thing to come along in the law since Clarence Darrow. Called me up himself, Buford did, said I'd be dumber than a stump if I didn't appoint you to his bench when he died."

The waiter dropped off his drink. The senator drank half.

"He's my hero," Scott said.

"You're a hero to a lot of people, too."

"SMU fans."

"Not football, Scott. That murder case, McCall's son."

"You know about that?"

The senator laughed. "You went on national TV and accused the senior U.S. senator from Texas of obstructing justice … Yeah, I know about that."

"Oh. Look, I …"

"Impressed the hell out of me."

"It did?"

"And a lot of other conservatives, all across the country."

"Conservatives?"

"Sure. We hate the federal government. You stood up for an American citizen against the United States government. Shit, Scott, they should make a movie about that case. And you should make a fine federal judge."

Scott couldn't fight a smile. He saw himself entering a courtroom as Judge A. Scott Fenney. He could have a good life and still be able to provide for his daughters.

"Why, thank you, Senator."

The senator downed his drink then held the empty glass in the air until he caught the waiter's attention.

"So, Scott, as long as you win this case and pass the FBI's criminal background check, you're number two on the list."

Scott felt the smile drop off his face. "Number
two?
"

"Behind Shelby Morgan."

"The judge on my ex-wife's murder case?"

The senator nodded.

"Does she know I'm number two?"

"Yep."

"Well, that should make for a fun trial."

The senator smiled. "Like being in bed with a feral hog … except she's better looking."

Scott now saw himself entering the Ford Fenney law firm.

"Sorry, Scott, but I owe her." The waiter delivered another cocktail. "That's politics."

"A federal judgeship isn't about politics, Senator."

"Since when? Now don't go naïve on me, Scott. You and I both know,
everything
is politics. The Supreme Court decided—actually, six lawyers decided—that there's a constitutional right to an abortion—where's that in the Constitution? They made it up, to suit their politics. Then five lawyers on the Court said 'public use' in the Fifth Amendment actually means 'public benefit'—like James Madison didn't know the difference between 'use' and 'benefit'—and the government can condemn your home for a fucking football stadium if it'll generate more taxes. That's not law, Scott, that's politics."

The senator shook his head.

"Constitutional law is the greatest hoax ever perpetrated on the American people. But both parties love it because a Supreme Court decision trumps democracy. You don't have to convince a majority of three hundred million people that you're right, just five lawyers. Five fucking lawyers and you win your political victory."

He sipped his drink and shook his head again.

"One thing I've learned in Washington, Scott—everything is politics. Why do Democrats want to grant citizenship to twelve million illegal Mexican immigrants? Because they care about those poor people? No. Because they want twelve million more Democratic voters. Politics. Why do Democrats want a government-run health care system? Because their voters are gonna get free health care, our voters are gonna pay for it. Politics. How much we pay for corn, milk, beef, steel … politics. How many miles to the gallon our cars get … politics. How much pollution we breathe … politics. Who sits on the federal bench … also politics."

Scott felt like the moderator on
Meet the Press.

"The deal works like this, Scott: Texas senators pick our federal judges, New York senators pick theirs. Someone tries to go around us, we 'blue-slip' the nominee, he never gets a committee vote much less a floor vote."

"What's a blue-slip?"

"Veto, same as being black-balled at a country club. Means the home-state senators can block any judicial nominee for their state. Without blue-slips, the Senate would descend into chaos. Blue-slips keep things orderly."