Accused (7 page)

That was followed by more testimonials, first from Trey's sports agent: "He wasn't just my client. He was my best friend."

And from his equipment sponsor: "We were honored to have Trey endorse our golf products, which he honestly felt were the best on the market. I loved the guy."

And finally from a tour official: "The fans have lost a great golfer and an even greater young man, and we have lost a brother, a member of the tour family."

The screen lingered on the image of Trey Rawlins with the sick kids.

Scott had never paid much attention to Trey when he had worked at the Highland Park Country Club: Trey Rawlins had been one of the young assistant pros who came and went with the seasons; A. Scott Fenney had been a member in good standing at the most exclusive country club in Dallas. They had not occupied the same social stratum. But then Rebecca Fenney had fled Dallas with the assistant pro who soon became a star on the pro golf tour; and A. Scott Fenney had soon lost his membership, his mansion, and his Ferrari—as well as his wife. But he had never blamed Trey. He had taken Scott's wife, but he couldn't take someone who wasn't there for the taking. So while Trey's death had brought Scott's wife back to him, it had brought him no solace.

When the broadcast resumed, the announcer said, "Trey is survived by his twin sister, Terri Rawlins. Funeral services will be held Thursday in Galveston, where we now go live to Renée Ramirez for an update on the criminal investigation."

The picture cut to a beautiful young Latina reporter standing in front of a low-slung building with “Galveston County Jail” over the entrance doors.

"Trey Rawlins, the fifth-ranked professional golfer in the world, was found brutally murdered in the bedroom of his multimillion-dollar Galveston beach house early Friday morning. He was only twenty-eight years old."

A video showed workers wearing white jumpsuits with "Galveston County Medical Examiner" printed on the back removing a body from a white beach house.

Back to the reporter: "Galveston Police Detective Chuck Wilson gave a statement to the media Friday morning outside the murder scene."

A clip from the interview played. The detective was middle-aged and tall and stood before a dozen microphones clumped together on a podium under a palm tree with the surf breaking behind him. He wore sunglasses and looked like Dirty Harry.

"At approximately three-fifty this morning police were called to the residence of Trey Rawlins, the professional golfer. Mr. Rawlins was found in his bed, deceased. He had been stabbed. Police found Rebecca Fenney, age thirty-five, in the residence with his blood on her body and clothing. We questioned Ms. Fenney, and at approximately eight this morning, we placed Ms. Fenney under arrest for the murder of Trey Rawlins. She is currently being held at the county jail."

An image of Rebecca and Trey in happier times appeared on the screen. The reporter said, "Rebecca Fenney was Trey Rawlins' longtime companion on tour. She now stands accused of his murder. She's being held without bail pending her indictment by the grand jury, but she has denied killing Trey. I've learned that her ex-husband, a Dallas lawyer, has notified police that he is representing her. He is expected to arrive in town today, so I've been waiting here hoping to get a word with him. Back to you, Hal."

Hal, the announcer: "Her ex-husband is defending her? For murdering the man she ran off with? Can he do that? Isn't that some kind of conflict of interest? Or at least a conflicted interest?" Hal shook his head. "Well, that proves he's a better man than me."

Back to the reporter: "No, Hal, that proves he's a better lawyer than you. For enough money, a lawyer will represent anyone—even his wife who left him for the man she's now accused of murdering."

Scott sighed and said, "Ex-wife."

SEVEN

The Galveston County Jail stands at 54th and Ball Street, one block off Broadway, the main drag on the Island. The sand-colored, 1,250-bed structure is framed by palm trees and gives the impression of a retirement community. For some of the inmates, it might be.

Scott steered the Jetta into the parking lot and saw that Renée Ramirez and her cameraman remained camped out on the front sidewalk. But she was expecting a Dallas lawyer—a guy wearing a suit and driving a luxury automobile, not a guy wearing shorts and sneakers and driving a Volkswagen—so Scott walked right past her without attracting more than a coy smile and a whiff of her sweet perfume. He entered the lobby and went over to the bail window but turned at the sound of chains dragging across concrete: a line of tattooed men wearing white GALVESTON COUNTY INMATE jumpsuits and shackles shuffled past and through a secure door under the close supervision of two guards packing pump shotguns, but not before one inmate said something in Spanish to a female guard and grabbed his crotch, which earned him a rifle butt rammed into his ribs.

"Help you?"

Scott turned back to the window. A chubby young man who looked more like a mall cop than a certified Texas peace officer addressed him. He wore a khaki Galveston County Sheriff's Department uniform and sat at a desk on the other side of the open window. Behind him, more uniformed officers sat at desks scattered about the room.

"I'm Scott Fenney from Dallas." He handed his business card to the officer, who looked at it and frowned as if it were written in French. "I'm representing Rebecca Fenney. I'm here to pick her up."

The officer looked up from the card. "Pick her up? What, like a prom date?" He shook his head. "Sorry, buddy, you don't just
pick up
someone accused of murder. She's staying right there in that cell till the grand jury indicts her."

"Oh. Okay. Then please give me a copy of the magistrate's written finding of probable cause."

"Do what?"

"My client was arrested at eight Friday morning without a warrant and charged with a felony, to-wit, murder under section nineteen of the Texas Penal Code. Section seventeen of the Code of Criminal Procedure requires that she be released within seventy-two hours after her arrest unless a magistrate determines that probable cause exists to believe she committed the crime. That time period expired at eight this morning. So you must either show me the magistrate's determination of probable cause or release my client."

The officer stared slack-jawed at Scott.

"To-
what?
" He held up a finger as if gauging the wind. "Uhh … hold on a sec." He swiveled around in his chair and called out. "Sarge—we got a lawyer up here quoting the Penis Code. He's from
Dallas.
"

A weary-looking older cop eating a donut at a desk along the back wall glanced up from his newspaper. He finished off the donut, removed his reading glasses, and pushed himself out of his chair. He hitched up his uniform trousers then walked up to the window. When he arrived, the officer manning the window held up Scott's business card. Sarge took it and held it at arm's length trying to find a focus point without his reading glasses. He finally gave up and instead gave Scott a once-over.

"You a lawyer?"

Scott nodded. "Scott Fenney from Dallas. I represent Rebecca Fenney."

Sarge jabbed his head at the officer manning the window.

"Junior here, he thinks he's some kind of comedian, been saying 'Penis Code' since he hired on a year ago. Problem is, he's a one-joke comedian and it ain't even a funny joke." Sarge sighed. "But then, you don't get Phi Beta Kappas for jailers, do you, Junior?"

"Nope, sure don't, Sarge."

Sarge eyed Junior a moment, then shook his head and turned back to Scott.

"So what can I do you for?"

"Release Rebecca Fenney."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because the law requires you to."

"The
law?
"

As if Scott had said "the Pope."

"My client was arrested without a warrant … " Scott repeated his recitation of the law for Sarge then added, "And since my client has no assets, she must be released on her personal recognizance."

"Is that so?"

"That is so, Sarge. So please give me either the magistrate's written determination of probable cause or my client."

Sarge grunted and scratched himself then pivoted and went back to his desk. He put on his reading glasses, picked up his phone, and dialed. He didn't lower his voice.

"Yeah, Rex, we got a lawyer over here, says he represents the Fenney woman … No, he's from Dallas"—Sarge focused on Scott's card through his reading glasses—"name's A. Scott Fenney … Hold on, I'll ask." Sarge turned to Scott. "You
the
A. Scott Fenney?"

"I'm the only one I know."

Back to the phone. "He don't know … What? … Hold on." Back to Scott. "You related to her?"

"She's my ex-wife."

Sarge blinked hard. "You're kidding?" Sarge returned to the phone, a bit amused. "Says she's his ex … Yeah, I'd let mine rot in jail, too, that no-good … Anywho, he says we gotta release her on PR 'cause she was arrested without a warrant and no one took her before a magistrate for a PC hearing and … Really? … I'll be damned … Okay, you're the boss."

Sarge hung up and walked back to the window. To Junior he said, "Cut her loose." To Scott he said, "The D.A., he said you're absolutely right … and he said to come see him tomorrow morning." Sarge nodded at the front door behind Scott. "Down the street, in the courthouse."

"I'll do that."

Scott handed Junior the bag of clothes Karen had given him for Rebecca then he stepped away from the window. One side of the large lobby was filled with rows of chairs occupied by family and friends of the residents, the other side with rows of closed-circuit TV monitors mounted on small cubicles occupied by a half-dozen people. On the monitors were the faces of inmates, white, black, and brown, some of whom looked sad, others lost, and a few like they belonged in a maximum security prison instead of a county jail. In front of the monitors sat a lower-rung lawyer counseling his client—"Now, Ernesto …"—and a minister praying with a crying soul—"Dear Lord in Heaven"—and weary women and young children paying a daily visit—"Hi, Daddy!" a little girl shrieked when her father's face appeared on the screen. Scott found a vacant chair among other women and children waiting for daddy to be bailed out of jail as if it were just part of their normal Monday routine and waited for his wife to be processed out of jail.

Ex-wife.

He never had closure, as they say on TV. Never had a chance to say goodbye. Twenty-two months and eleven days ago she had left him. He hadn't spoken to her or seen her since, except once on television. One Sunday, a few months after she had left, Scott had watched the final round of a golf tournament Trey Rawlins had won; after he had putted out for the victory, the camera caught her jumping into his arms and kissing him—on national TV. Scott had never watched another golf tournament.

How should he greet her now? Should he shake hands with her? Should he kiss her on the cheek like Leno greeting a female guest? Should he hug her? How is a man supposed to greet his ex-wife who's accused of murdering the man she cheated with? How is a lawyer supposed to greet his new client who used to be his wife? What are the rules for this sort of thing?

He hadn't come up with any answers when the secure door opened, and she was suddenly standing there. She was dressed in a knit shirt, shorts, and sandals. She wore no makeup. Her red hair was ratty and cut shorter than before, but she seemed not to have aged a day in the two years. Her skin was still creamy with a hint of sunburn, and her body still remarkably lean and fit. Even at thirty-five—even after spending three days in jail—Rebecca Fenney's beauty still stunned him.

Scott stood.

Her eyes darted around the crowded lobby like a lost child looking for her parents. She spotted him and almost ran to him. She was crying before she threw her arms around him.

"Oh, Scott. Thank God you came."

She clutched him tightly for a long moment, then he felt her slim body sag in his arms. She sobbed into his chest. After all that time, she was back in his arms. She felt good even if she didn't smell good. She finally wiped her face on his shirt and looked up at him.

"I'm sorry, I must smell awful after three days."

"You didn't shower?"

"With those women? You wouldn't believe how many prostitutes are in Galveston. I was so afraid."

He released her. "Did they hurt you?"

"The women?"

"The police."

"They brought me here in handcuffs, they took my clothes, hosed me down … Scott, they sprayed me for lice."

"Why didn't you hire a lawyer to get you out of here?"

"I don't have any money."

"On TV, they said Trey earned millions."

"None of it's mine."

"You could've put your house up to secure bond."

"It's not mine either. Nothing is. The house, the cars, the yacht—everything belongs to … Why would someone kill Trey? This is all like a bad dream."

"It's real. But I'm here now, Rebecca. I'll take care of you."

She glanced around as if worried they had made a mistake and would throw her back in jail. "Can we leave now?"