Accused (28 page)

"Your Honor," Scott said, "Ms. Fenney has no assets and cannot satisfy such an onerous bail. We ask that the defendant be released on her personal recognizance."

"PR on a murder charge? I don't think so, Mr. Fenney."

Without breaking eye contact with the judge, Scott reached out to Karen. She slapped a stack of documents in his hand. Scott gave a copy to the D.A. then walked over and handed a copy to the judge. Karen addressed the court from a sitting position.

"Your Honor, this is our brief on bail. The U.S. Supreme Court ruled in
Stack v. Boyle
in 1951 that bail is excessive in violation of the Bail Clause of the Eighth Amendment if set in an amount exceeding that necessary to ensure the defendant will show up for trial. The Court also ruled that—"

"Your Honor," the Assistant D.A. said, "the defendant is charged with a bloody brutal murder that shocked our community—"

The D.A. was reading the brief. Without looking up, he held up an open hand to his assistant. "Easy, Ted. This is about the law, not those cameras."

"Your Honor," Karen said, "the defendant has resided in Galveston County for almost two years and will continue to reside in the county."

"Not in that house, she won't. So where will she reside?"

"In a vacation house here on the Island. We'll give Mr. Truitt the address."

"If she has no assets, how is she affording that?"

"Your Honor," Scott said, "Ms. Fenney is residing with us. I am also her ex-husband. I rented a house for the summer to try this case. We're all living there, including Ms. Fenney's daughter. She's not going anywhere."

"And she agrees to wear a GPS-tracking ankle bracelet at all times and not to leave the Island," Karen said. "She will surrender her passport to the district attorney."

"Your Honor," the D.A. said, "Mr. Fenney has personally assured me that the defendant will present herself for trial. With the GPS monitor and the passport surrender, the state does not object to release on PR."

"I do. Two hundred fifty thousand. If you object to that bail, Mr. Fenney, you can file your brief with the federal court in Houston. My clerk will give you directions. I think we're done here. I want to see counsel in chambers."

She bolted off the bench and through the side door. She wasn't happy, but neither was Scott. The D.A. stepped over to him.

"You like her already, don't you?" To Karen: "Great brief. You should be a law professor … or better yet, move down here to the Island. I'll fire Ted and hire you."

The deputy sheriff stepped over and took Rebecca by her arm. Her eyes were wide with fear. She grabbed Scott's arm. The deputy tugged gently, but she did not release her grip.

"Scott, please don't let them take me! I can't stay in that jail!"

"You won't have to. I'll bond you out."

"How? Two hundred fifty thousand dollars? You're broke."

"I'll figure something out."

"Scott, please … those women."

The D.A. stepped over to the deputy. "Tell Sarge to put her in a separate cell."

The deputy nodded then pulled Rebecca through the side door. Scott felt the anger rising inside him. An ambitious judge was a dangerous animal.

"Stay calm, Scott," the D.A. said. "So I'm not bailing you out of jail."

The judge was removing her robe when her secretary escorted the prosecution and defense teams into her chambers. Shelby Morgan was lean and wore tight black slacks, black high-heels, and a fitted white blouse. She appeared younger than forty. She hung the robe on a coat rack then sat behind her desk in front of a wide window offering a nice view of Galveston Bay on the north side of the Island. But the judge wasn't in the mood for nice.

"Rex, did you see Renée's report?"

"Yep."

They took seats in front of the desk. The judge stared at the D.A. but pointed at Scott. "Did you let her out on PR because of him?"

"No, Shelby. Because that's the law."

"Maybe so, but you made us look like fools."

"The law has a way of doing that."

"Are we off the record, Judge?" Scott asked.

"Yes."

"Then what the hell's going on?"

"Careful, Mr. Fenney."

"Denying bail, then a million dollars, now two-fifty. The D.A. doesn't object to her release on PR—why are you insisting on bail?"

"She's charged with murder."

"She's not a flight risk or a danger to the community. She's agreed to remain on the Island pending trial—"

"Where? Where on the Island?"

"On the West End, at an undisclosed location. For her safety."

"She'd be safer in jail. Hell, you'd be safer with her in jail."

"You can't set bail to punish the defendant, force her to stay incarcerated through the trial."

"I can't go any lower than that—Renée would have a field day."

"That's grounds for recusal, Judge. Karen, prepare a motion."

The judge's face flashed red again, and this time she did have a Serena moment.

"Don't you fucking dare!"

"Judge, I don't live here. It won't affect my law career, having a judge pissed off at me. My only concern is that the defendant get a fair trial. If you can't give her that because of your concern about the press coverage … or for other personal reasons … then I'll file that motion. And I will take that to the federal court."

"Mr. Fenney, I can hold you in contempt!" She pointed a manicured finger at Scott. "You're not a legend in my courtroom! You're just another goddamned lawyer!"

"Judge, my client—"

"Your wife."

"My client is entitled to a fair trial and I'm gonna make damn sure she gets one. If you can't give her a fair trial, then recuse yourself and let another judge do it."

Judge Shelby Morgan glared at Scott.

"She'll get a fair trial, Mr. Fenney."

When they exited the judge's chambers and walked back into the courtroom, the D.A. whistled and said, "Damn, Scott, you really know how to make a good first impression."

"I try. I figured we might as well clear the air now, before we go to trial."

"Oh, I think you cleared the air all right. But what's the personal reason?"

"The judge and I are both up for a federal judgeship in Dallas."

"Buford's bench?"

Scott nodded. "He's dying."

"Heard he was sick."

"Senator Armstrong said he owes Judge Morgan."

"I expect he does." He didn't elaborate. "So Shelby might be leaving the Island, huh?" The D.A. smiled. "Hell, not all bad news then."

They grabbed their briefcases and the bag of jewelry then opened the courtroom doors and came face to face with a dozen cameras shining bright lights and reporters shoving microphones and shouting questions. Renée Ramirez was the leader of this pack.

"Mr. Fenney, why are you defending your ex-wife when she's charged with murdering the man she left you for?"

Scott maintained his lawyerly expression. "Because she's innocent."

They pushed forward down the corridor toward the elevators.

"Why won't she take a polygraph?"

"Because polygraphs are not reliable indicators of guilt or innocence, which is why they're not admissible in any court of law in America."

"Why were her fingerprints on the murder weapon?"

"Are your fingerprints on your kitchen knives?"

Scott saw Renée's obvious frustration with his answers and figured she'd give up. She didn't. She had one more question.

"Mr. Fenney—do you still love your wife?"

Scott knew his expression had let him down, and so did Renée. She had a "gotcha" grin on her face.

"Ex-wife."

Carlos had jogged ahead and gotten an elevator; he held it open for the others. Once they were aboard, he let the doors close, shutting out the cameras. The D.A. turned to Scott.

"You okay? That last one was a cheap shot. But that's Renée."

"I'm a big boy."

Bobby held up the official Houston Classic tournament tote bag.

"Rex, we've got some evidence for you."

"And I've got some evidence for you."

TWENTY-FOUR

The D.A. sat behind his desk under the sailfish, and Ted Newman sat against the wall. Hank Kowalski had joined them and stood next to Newman. The defense team faced the D.A. from across his desk. Karen opened her laptop like a gunner setting up field artillery. Bobby opened the tote bag and removed the baggies containing the fingerprint evidence Scott had collected at the golf tournament. He placed them on the desk.

"Ah, more fingerprints," the D.A. said. "Well, Hank ran Goose's prints. Didn't match the unidentified prints at the crime scene. Who are these from?"

"Suspects."

Hank stepped over and examined the baggies one by one; each was identified with initials. "Glass marked 'TM' … soda can marked 'LP' … plastic container marked 'RH' … Houston Classic golf programs marked 'BM' and 'DP' and 'VH' … Budweiser beer bottle marked 'NM' … five Corona beer bottles marked 'CW'. I can guess where these came from."

The D.A. turned to Scott. "You don't want to tell me who they belong to?"

"Not yet."

The D.A. nodded. "Run 'em, Hank." To Scott: "That it?"

"For now."

"Okay. My turn."

The D.A. pushed a thick stack of papers across the desk. Scott handed them to Bobby.

"Item one: log and copies of all emails to and from Trey over the last six months, including to his website. My tech man got them off his laptop."

Bobby scanned the log and said, "None to or from the other women."

The D.A.: "What other women?"

"We've learned that Trey was promiscuous," Scott said.

"Promiscuous? Last time I checked the Penal Code, that's not illegal in Texas, thank God, or we'd never clear the docket." The DA chuckled. "Hell, Scott, if I looked like him and was rich like him, I'd damn sure be promiscuous."

"With married women?"

The D.A. shrugged. "Maybe not with our gun laws. What married women?"

"Other golfers' wives. On tour."

"You know this for a fact?"

"They admitted it."

"You're gonna put Trey on trial, aren't you?"

"No, Rex, I'm going to find his killer."

"She's over at the jail. Look, Scott, Trey was young and rich and famous—didn't you have some fun when you were young?"

"Not with married women."

The Assistant D.A. snorted. "Well, at least you know Trey wasn't picking on you, taking your wife."

An awkward silence captured the room. The D.A. grimaced, a common expression when the Assistant D.A. was present. Scott waited for the D.A. to reprimand his assistant, but instead the D.A. bent over, opened a lower desk drawer, and came back up with a box of dog biscuits. He stuck his hand inside the box and pulled out a little brown biscuit. He flipped it over to his assistant.

"Down, boy."

The others choked back laughter, but the Assistant D.A.'s face flushed a bright red. "Rex, are you trying to humiliate me?"

"No, Ted, you're doing a damn fine job of that on your own. I'm trying to teach you humility. There's a difference." The D.A. turned to Karen: "Sure you don't want to move to the Island? You could be the first female D.A. in the history of Galveston." The D.A. gestured at the baggies. "These their prints, those wives'?"

"And their husbands'."

"You figure a jealous husband for the killer?"

"Could be."

"Could be your wife was the jealous party."

"Trey proposed to her that night."

"So she said."

The D.A. pushed another document across the desk.

"Item two: list of websites Trey visited over the last six months. Common theme seems to be porn."

Scott passed it on to Bobby. Karen leaned toward Bobby to read the list.

"Did he go onto Facebook?" she said.

"Every day the last couple of weeks," Bobby said.

"What's your point?" the D.A. said.

"Trey could have communicated with someone through their Facebook account, online but outside his email accounts."

"Like who?"

Karen tapped on the laptop keyboard then turned the screen toward the D.A. On the screen was a Facebook profile.

"Like her."

"Who's Billie Jean Puckett?"

"Pete Puckett's seventeen-year-old daughter."

"The golf pro?"

Scott nodded. "Trey was having an affair with Billie Jean. Pete threatened to kill him if he didn't stay away from her. Happened at the Challenge tournament in California, one week before Trey was killed. There was a witness, another golfer."

"I take it he didn't? Stay away from her?"