Accused (57 page)

"Take care of yourself." He pulled out $1,000 cash and held it out to her. "I maxed out my last credit card."

"No, Scott, I can't take that. You need it."

"I have options."

"I have jewelry." She nodded past Scott. "And you have company."

The D.A. pulled up in his pickup wearing a fishing cap and smoking a cigar. He cut the engine and got out. Scott walked over; they shook hands and leaned against the truck.

"The old man and the sea," Scott said.

"Yep. Me and Hank, we're heading over to Bolivar, surf fish with Gus. Drink whiskey, smoke cigars, eat red meat. Man stuff. You heading home?"

"Yep. Father stuff."

"Good stuff." The D.A. nodded toward the beach. "Those your little gals?"

"Boo and Pajamae."

"Cute kids." He puffed on his cigar then gestured at Rebecca. "She going home with you?"

"No."

The D.A. nodded. "When you get back to Dallas, call that fourth-grade teacher."

"I think I will."

"I enjoyed working the trial with you, Scott. Honest defense lawyer, nice change of pace."

"Thanks, Rex. I've enjoyed knowing an honest prosecutor."

The D.A. smiled. "Two honest lawyers on the same case, what are the odds? I should've bought a lottery ticket." He sucked on the cigar then exhaled a ring of smoke. "Just so you know, I think the cartel killed Trey."

"Why?"

"Benito Estrada was found dead this morning, in his bed, a knife in his chest. That's the sort of thing the
Muertos
would do. Send a message."

"Damn."

"The day he hired on with the cartel, he signed his own death warrant."

They stared out to sea for a moment.

"Good thing you came down and defended her. Your wife. I came damn close to sending an innocent person to prison." He puffed on his cigar. "Scott, I really thought she did it. I wouldn't have prosecuted her if I didn't."

"I know. You're a good man, Rex."

"And you'll be a good judge. George—Senator Armstrong—called me this morning. Said Shelby withdrew her name for that federal judgeship."

Scott nodded. He figured she would.

"I think I know why," the D.A. said. "Anyway, George said you're it. Said he'd be calling you. Congratulations."

The D.A. stood straight and stuck a hand out to Scott. They shook again.

"I think justice was done, Scott." He checked his watch. "Speaking of which, I gotta go get Ted out of jail."

"Your Assistant D.A.'s in jail?"

"Yep."

"What'd he do?"

"Nothing."

"Why's he in jail?"

"I had him arrested last night."

"Why?"

"Well, I saw this movie a long time ago, about a doctor who's a real jerk, doesn't treat his patients like human beings, until he becomes a patient himself, experiences the other side of the doctor-patient relationship. I figured it might help Ted to experience law enforcement from the other side—getting pulled over and handcuffed on the side of the road, hauled down to jail, strip searched, hosed down, sprayed for lice, spend a night in the drunk tank with a bunch of stinkin' bums puking their guts out … Might give him a little perspective—not everyone who gets arrested is guilty." He chuckled. "And it'll teach him not to leak evidence to the press."

"Ted was the leak?"

"Yep. Pillow talk."

"Ted and Renée?"

"Makes you kinda nauseous, don't it? That lucky little bastard."

Scott laughed.

"That's how she knew Rebecca was out here, taped you two on the beach. Sorry."

The D.A. got back into his truck and blew smoke out the open window.

"Oh, almost forgot. Hank checked out the cops and everyone else who worked the crime scene. They didn't take the three million—the mob money."

"He's sure?"

The D.A. nodded. "He threatened them with Gus—a polygraph. Which got Wilson—the detective—to fess up to taking a couple of Trey's DVDs. Lacy Parker movies. I don't figure he'll be writing a book now."

Scott waved at the endless sand. "Maybe Trey buried that money out there somewhere."

"Maybe. Maybe some old-timer with a metal detector will find it one day. Buried treasure. Not Lafitte's, but three million, that'd spend pretty good."

He nodded at Scott then drove off. Before the black pickup was out of sight, Scott's cell phone rang. It was Senator Armstrong.

"Scott, you still want that judgeship?"

The politics and fingerprints had aligned for A. Scott Fenney, but did he want a federal judgeship that way? To be appointed by a politician like Senator George Armstrong? The choice was clear: Judge Fenney or Ford Fenney. He made his choice for his girls … for the dissed of Dallas … for Sam Buford … and for himself.

"Yes, sir, I do."

Politics was putting him on the federal bench, but Judge A. Scott Fenney would be about serving justice—one person at a time.

"Good. Because you're it. Shelby dropped out. When you get back to Dallas, call the FBI office to get fingerprinted and your criminal background check done. They'll coordinate with my office. Your confirmation hearing will be in a few months in Washington, but it's just a formality for district judges. What I say goes. Welcome to the bench, Judge A. Scott Fenney."

"Thank you, Senator."

"Thank you, Scott. For my daughter."

"Senator, may I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Do federal judges get the same health care coverage as senators?"

"The best. A perk of political office."

"Is there dental coverage?"

"Absolutely. And don't worry, only thing Democrats and Republicans agreed on when we passed the national health care bill was to exempt ourselves. We're not gonna ration our own care."

"Just the taxpayers'."

"Exactly."

Scott ended the call and thought, braces for Pajamae. The girls were still on the beach. Rebecca stood alone, watching them. Scott walked over.

"Was he here about me?" Rebecca asked.

"The D.A.? No. You don't have to worry, Rebecca. The jury acquitted you—you're free. Like I said, the government can't try you twice for the same crime. But still, you might want to move, start over fresh somewhere else."

She nodded. "Maybe I will."

Scott called the girls over then said to Rebecca, "I'm going to be a judge."

"Oh, Scott, that's wonderful." She hugged him. "You'll be a great judge."

Scott took her hand and squeezed it around the cash.

"Take it. You can stay here till the end of the month, it's paid up. Good luck, Rebecca."

"This time," Rebecca said, "you're leaving me."

Tears came into her green eyes. Scott brushed her red hair off her face and kissed her on the forehead. He then wrapped his arms around this woman he had loved and wanted the last thirteen years of his life. He held her for the last time.

Boo Fenney walked over to her mother—the mother who had run off with a golf pro, used cocaine, traded sex for drugs, and been tried for murder—all before Boo's twelfth birthday. Her mother was guilty of a lot of things, but at least she was innocent of murdering her boyfriend. So she wasn't going to that prison.

But she wasn't going home with them either. How could she? Everyone in Highland Park would know everything her mother had done. How embarrassing would that be? How could Mother go on their field trips now? How many girls would tease her now? How many boys would Boo have to beat up? How many times would she have to tell the principal to "Call my lawyer?"

Oh, well, sixth grade would give her the opportunity to develop her uppercut.

They had a good family now, the three of them—an odd family in Highland Park, but a good family for them. They had a simple life, and mother was a complicated woman. A mother Boo would never understand.

So while Boo would always love her mother, she did not want Rebecca Fenney to be her mother. Most kids don't get to choose their parents; they were stuck with what they got. But Boo had a choice, and she had made it. It wasn't an easy decision to say goodbye, but she knew it was best for both of them. For all of them.

She hugged her one last time and said, "I love you, Mother."

"I'll always love you, Boo."

"I know."

Boo got into the back seat of the Jetta with Pajamae and Maria. When they returned to Dallas, she would get A. Scott to ask Ms. Dawson out. She and Pajamae were at that age, when girls needed a mother. A good mother.

Scott Fenney had not failed Rebecca Fenney—as a lawyer or as a man. He understood that now. He no longer blamed himself. He had finally emerged from the final stage of wife desertion. He was over his past. Including Rebecca.

"Goodbye, Rebecca. And good luck."

"I'm a survivor. Don't worry about me. Just take care of Boo."

"Always."

Louis and Carlos drove off in the black Dodge Charger, followed by Bobby and Karen and the baby in the Prius. Scott got into the Jetta, started the engine, and drove slowly down the street, staring at Rebecca in the rearview. Boo waved at her through tears and the back window. Rebecca waved back. She was leaning against the red Corvette. The morning sun caught her red hair, and she glowed. Scott wanted to remember her just that way. Twenty-three months and twenty-nine days after his wife had left him, he was now leaving his wife.

Ex-wife.

EPILOGUE

The red Corvette convertible exited Interstate 10 and drove into Loretta, Louisiana, population one hundred seven, give or take. This was bayou country, the backwater where people lived their entire lives without ever leaving Beauregard Parish. Where the residents were happy to be isolated from the outside world. Where modern conveniences were unknown. Where there's no cable TV because the few dozen mobile homes and single-family homes don't constitute a sizeable enough market for the cable companies to incur the expense of laying lines the one-hundred-twenty-seven miles from Lake Charles, the nearest big city. Where the information superhighway bypassed these people like the railroads bypassed two-bit cowtowns back in the 1800s.

In Loretta, Louisiana, the "Net" is something you catch crawfish in.

The beautiful woman driving the red sports car wore dark sunglasses, a black funeral dress, black heels, black gloves, a black wig and a black scarf tied beneath her chin. The low-slung car kicked up a cloud of dust as she drove down Main Street past old black men sitting in folding chairs out front of shuttered storefronts and spitting tobacco juice into Coca-Cola bottles; they perked up at the sight of a glamorous woman in their quiet town. She parked in front of the Loretta State Bank & Trust, the only banking institution in town. It was a family-owned bank that remained open only to provide jobs for the family, a small-town bank where a safe deposit box could be secured for a nominal fee with few questions asked. She got out with a large black satchel and walked inside through the front door past an old black security guard who tipped his hat to her.

"Afternoon, ma'am."

She did not remove her sunglasses. She went directly to the vault entrance manned by another old black security guard and signed in. The guard craned his neck to read her entry through his bifocals then pushed himself out of his chair with great effort and said, "This way, Miz Rawlins." He led her into the vault.

"Box 8," he said. "One of the big ones."

The guard found the box and inserted his master key and turned it. She inserted her box key and turned it. The lock released. The guard removed the oversized box and strained to heft it.

"Must've got gold bricks in here."

He led her to a private room inside the secure confines of the vault. He placed the box on the table with a heavy thud then left her alone, shutting the door behind him. She removed her sunglasses and lifted the top of the box open. The inside was filled not with gold bricks but with neat stacks of $100 bills. Three million dollars. She was thirty-five years old, and she would never again be dependent on a man.

Two days later, Rebecca Fenney stood wearing sunglasses and a black bikini on the flybridge of her fifty-six-foot Riva Sport Yacht, one hand on the wheel, the other on the throttle opened wide, her red hair whipping in the wind, as the sleek craft cut through the waters of the Gulf of Mexico heading south to Cancún.

She loved this boat.

She glanced down at the photo attached to the dash, of her and Trey in happier times, in Hawaii earlier that year when she was still the love of his life. In every woman's life, there's always another woman. First a prostitute in Dallas and then a teenager in Galveston. She sighed.

"You put me in your will then two weeks later you fall in love with Billie Jean Puckett?" She shook her head. "My dearest Trey … Did you really think I was going to let you leave me for a teenager?"

"Innocence is the absence of guilt," the judge had instructed the jury. And the jury had found her innocent. Absent of guilt. And she was—entirely absent of guilt. She felt no guilt at all. Because a woman's life is not lived in a man's world of truth or lie, right or wrong, black or white; a woman's life is lived in shades of gray. Rebecca Fenney had simply done what she had to do to survive in a man's world, what any woman would have done. Sometimes a woman must take matters into her own hands.