Accused (31 page)

"You know Benito Estrada?"

"No."

"I do. I just met him, before I bailed you out. He sold cocaine to Trey. A lot."

She nodded. "I was really worried about it. He started about six months ago, at least that's when I found out about it. At first he said it was to celebrate a great round, then to get over a bad round, then after every round. He said he had it under control, but the last few months, it was every day."

"He owed Benito five hundred thousand dollars."

"For cocaine?"

Scott nodded. "Benito called him that night, tried to convince him to pay, said he didn't want Trey to get hurt, by the
Muertos
."

"Who are they?"

"The cartel's hit men."

"Why didn't Trey pay him? He had the money."

"He thought Benito had cheated him."

"You think they killed Trey? Those
Muertos?
"

"I don't know. Was he stressed out, before his death?"

"No. He won the Challenge the week before."

"Why'd he buy guns?"

She shrugged. "Crime on the Island. So he started carrying a gun in the car."

"Why didn't you tell me, Rebecca?"

"That he carried a gun?"

"That you used cocaine."

"I didn't want Boo to know."

"It'll come out at trial … and it won't be good when it does."

They stood and walked again, but Scott did not hold her hand this time.

Eighteen miles down the beach, Louis walked over to where Carlos was working on two surfboards laid out on the sand in the shade of the house.

"What's a six-letter word for 'entertain at bedtime'?"

"Hooker."

Louis grunted. "Fits." He filled in the blanks on the crossword puzzle then said, "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning these boards. Found them under the house, pulled them out for us."

"What do you mean,
us?
"

"Me and you, man—we're gonna learn to surf this summer. Boo wants to learn, but the boss said no."

"Why?"

"Guess he figures she might drown."

"No. Why do you think I want to learn to surf?"

" 'Cause we're at the beach."

"I saw that
Jaws
movie. I figure there's sharks out in that water."

"None big enough to eat you."

"That
Jaws
shark ate a boat. Reckon they'd be big enough to take a bite out of me." Louis looked out to sea for a time. "One thing I've learned, Carlos, there's always someone bigger and meaner."

Carlos chuckled. "Benito's men?"

"That could've turned ugly."

"Testosterone will do that."

"Mean will do it, too."

"
Los Muertos
are mean. Think they killed that white boy?"

"They killed a black boy, down in the projects. Figured he was safe down there, that Mexicans wouldn't come into South Dallas. But they did. Armed like the infantry, a dozen of 'em. They found him, chased him down, shot him to pieces. Like in a movie. You know how much he owed? Ten thousand."

"Trey Rawlins owed them five hundred thousand."

"Not no more he don't."

"The cocaine," Karen said. "Scott, that's bad evidence. How can we put Rebecca on the stand now?"

"We can't."

"Which makes conviction more likely," Bobby said.

"What'll happen to Boo then?" Karen said.

They were on the back deck. Rebecca and Boo were down on the beach.

"Scott, I'm not one to butt into your personal affairs—"

Bobby laughed. "Since when?"

"I'm sorry," Karen said. "Never mind."

"Karen," Scott said, "you've been the girls' mother for the last two years. We wouldn't have made it without you, okay? You've earned the right to butt in. What's on your mind?"

She gestured down at Boo and Rebecca. "They seem to be getting close again."

"She's her mother."

"Biological only. Scott, I've been carrying this baby for almost eight months now. There's no way I'll ever leave this child. How could she?"

"Karen, failure is not an option in Highland Park. It can be a tough place—"

"Life is tough. Scott, defending her is one thing, but don't make excuses for her. She abandoned her child. There's no excuse for that. Would you ever leave Boo or Pajamae?"

"No."

"Okay. She shouldn't have left Boo."

"Agreed."

"They were apart for two years, now they're back together for what, two months when the trial's over. What if she's convicted and they're apart again—for five to life? That would devastate Boo."

"I couldn't just leave her in Dallas. She wouldn't have stood for that."

"No, she wouldn't. But it's going to hurt her badly—if Rebecca's convicted."

Scott stared at his daughter and her mother.

"Then we can't let that happen."

Renée Ramirez presented another "Murder on the Beach" report on the ten o'clock news that night. She opened with footage from the arraignment, Rebecca in her jail jumpsuit pleading "not guilty" and Renée peppering Scott with questions in the corridor outside the courtroom ending with "Do you still love your wife?" and Scott's stunned expression. Then Renée went live from Galveston.

"Judge Shelby Morgan set the trial date for July twentieth and bail at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I interviewed Terri Rawlins after the hearing."

Terri appeared on the screen and said, "Now she can sit in jail where she belongs."

Back to Renée: "But Rebecca Fenney is not in jail tonight. Her ex-husband and lawyer, A. Scott Fenney, bonded her out by pledging his Highland Park house. She is now staying with him and his family in a rented beach house until the trial. I've heard about carrying a torch for an old love, but this guy is taking it a bit far." Renée smiled and shook her head. "Confidential sources at the courthouse have confirmed that the toxicology results showed significant levels of cocaine in Trey Rawlins' blood at the time of his death, and also in Rebecca Fenney's blood that same night."

"Damnit!" Scott pointed at the TV. "Who's leaking this stuff?"

"That detective," Bobby said.

Back on the screen: "Earlier today I interviewed Louise, a prostitute who spent three nights in the same cell with Rebecca Fenney."

A hard-looking female face filled the screen. Louise was not a high-priced hooker. She worked the street corners on the north side of Galveston. She said, "Oh, she bad. I seen it in her eyes. She killed that white boy. She guilty as sin."

TWENTY-SEVEN

"Pick and roll, Mr. Fenney," Pajamae whispered.

They were playing basketball on the court next to the house. Three on three: Pajamae, Boo, and Scott versus Bobby, Carlos, and Louis. Sitting in lawn chairs in the shade of the house were the fans: Rebecca, Karen, Consuela, and Maria. Two brown pelicans perched on the rooftop seemed amused. Pajamae was dribbling in place, and Bobby was guarding her. Scott circled the court then came up from behind and took a position right next to Bobby—the "pick"—blocking his path to Pajamae; she darted past Bobby, and Scott pivoted off his pick—the "roll"—and went hard to the basket looking back for Pajamae's bounce pass and—

"Unnnhh."

—collapsed to the concrete. He had rolled right into Louis with a good head of steam; running into a brick wall would have been a more pleasant experience. He first heard Rebecca's voice—"You okay, Scott?"—and then Karen's laughter and her voice—"I peed in my diaper. Maria, you need a clean diaper, too?"

It was the following Sunday, Father's Day, and this father was now stretched out flat on his back on the warm surface staring up at Louis's broad face and the blue sky and white seagulls beyond. Boo's frantic face appeared above him and she cried out, "Oh, my God—is he breathing?"

She dropped to her knees next to him and gently slapped his face.

"A. Scott, speak to me!"

She put her ear to his chest then came up with her arms spread to the heavens.

"He's alive!"

"I'm fine, Boo."

"Oh."

More faces came into view—the amused faces of Bobby and Carlos and finally the frowning face of Pajamae Jones-Fenney. She punched her hips with her fists.

"Damn, Mr. Fenney, can't you run a pick and roll?"

"No. I can't. Not against Louis. And don't cuss."

"Well, you wanna be my daddy, you gonna have to man up on a B-ball court. You ever see homies playin' hoops in the 'hood? You playin' street ball now, mista."

"Pajamae, it's not the NBA finals."

But she had already returned to the game. "Yo, my man." She shot the ball over to Carlos. "Your ball out, bro. We two down." Scott heard her muttering to herself. "Black girl got a white man for a daddy, how she gonna learn basketball good enough to get a college scholarship, tell me that?"

Louis extended a big hand to Scott. He took it, and Louis lifted him to his feet like he was air.

"You okay, Mr. Fenney?"

Scott nodded, but he wasn't sure.

"Boss," Carlos said, "we'll trade Mr. Herrin for Pajamae."

"Thanks a lot, Carlos," Bobby said.

"No offense, Mr. Herrin, but you ain't got no shot."

"I got you out of jail six times."

"That's true. Never mind."

Carlos passed the ball to Bobby, who air-balled a ten-footer, which evoked a "see what I mean" expression from Carlos. Scott grabbed the rebound and passed it over to Pajamae. She faced off Carlos. He spread his legs wide and got down low.

"Come on, girlie, show me what you got?"

Pajamae smiled, made a quick fake right, then passed the ball through Carlos's open legs, picked up the ball behind him, and nailed a banker over Louis.

"That's what I got, homeboy."

"
Homeboy?
I'm Mexican."

"Pajamae," Scott said, "your mother insisted you use correct English, and you do, except when you're on a basketball court. Then you street talk. What's up with that?"

"Oh. I'm being authentic."

"Authentic?"

"Unh-huh. See, black folks street talk when they play hoops, it's part of the culture. So if I'm gonna be a black basketball star when I grow up, I've got to sound authentic, like I came from the streets. Shoe sponsors love that kind of life story."

It actually sounded reasonable.

"And I'll have to get tattoos."

"Why?"

"You ever see an NBA player without tattoos?"

Boo joined them. "If she gets a tattoo, I'm getting my ears pierced."

"She's not getting a tattoo and you're not getting holes in your ears."

"Shit."

"Don't cuss."

Being a father wasn't easy, on or off a basketball court. Texting, sexting, sex, drugs, cable, profanity, porn, tattoos, NBA, NFL, MLB—there were just too many bad influences in kids' lives these days. But a good parent fought the fight every day. As Scott Fenney had and would. He would get these two girls through middle school, high school, and college, hopefully without any permanent damage or tattoos. He would be there for them when they were tempted or taunted or teased. He would answer their questions about sex honestly. And he would never use drugs.

He would be their father.

"Happy Father's Day, Scott."

Two hours later, Rebecca brought him a bowl of ice cream out on the deck. She sat and watched the waves wash ashore. Just beyond the surf, a guy and a girl cut through the water on a jet ski, moving fast. The girl screamed with either delight or fear.

"Those are fun," Rebecca said. After the jet ski was gone, she said, "Do you still have fun, Scott?"

"Sure."

"But you're broke and you don't have anyone."

"I have fun with the girls."

"Do you have the kind of fun a man needs?"

"I have father fun."

"Is that enough?"

"It may have to be."

"It doesn't have to be, Scott. You can have man fun with me again."

The girls needed a mother, and he needed a woman. Could Rebecca be a mother to Boo again … and to Pajamae? Could she be his wife again? Could they all go back to the way they were, as if the last two years had never happened? As if she had not run off with the golf pro, as if he were not now dead, as if she had not been accused of his murder, as if she had not used cocaine? How could she be a good mother if she were a bad influence? Would that work? Could it ever be the same? Could they have fun again?

And when they went to bed, would Trey lie down with them?