Accused

ELEVEN

"Trey Rawlins was the Island's favorite son-he's dead and you're defending your ex-wife who killed him, but you want the senator to make you a federal judge?"

"She didn't kill him."

"They arrested her."

"She's innocent until proven guilty."

"If you say so."

"I don't, Ken-the Constitution does."

When Mack McCall had died, the governor appointed a state legislator from Galveston to serve out his term. U.S. Senator George Armstrong would decide if Scott would become U.S. District Judge A. Scott Fenney. The senator's aide, Ken Ingram, had called Scott on their way out of the courthouse. Judge Buford had not wasted any time; he had already put Scott's name in the hat for his federal bench. So Bobby was driving the Jetta to the crime scene while Scott talked to Ken on his cell phone.

"Won't help your cause, Scott, you and your ex in the tabloids and on TV every night. Jesus, they're making you out a moron can't get over his wife on the cable talk shows. That shit won't play well in the Senate chamber."

"I'm defending my wife-how many senators are cheating on theirs?"

Ken chuckled. "Young women are a perk of higher office, Scott, like limos and better health care. And that's the difference-they're already in office. You're not."

"She's entitled to competent counsel. That's also in the Constitution."

"Voters don't read the Constitution, Scott. They read the newspapers. Well, some still do, but the others watch TV. And this case sounds like a goddamned soap opera. Renee's gonna have a fucking field day."

"It's not my job to worry about the press, Ken."

"Well, it is my job, Scott." He breathed heavily into the phone. "The senator's gonna be in town next weekend, wants to meet you for dinner Saturday night. I'll call you with the details."

Ken disconnected without saying goodbye.

"I guess there's no sense in reading the federal government's employee benefits manual yet," Bobby said.

"Might want to hold off for now."

"You gonna be okay with that? If she costs you the judgeship?"

"I have options."

"Ford Fenney?"

"Name partner, I could hire you and Karen and Carlos. I'd have to figure out something for Louis."

"We don't want that life, and neither do you."

"I failed her before, Bobby. I can't fail her again."

"First thing, Scotty, you didn't fail her-she left you and Boo. And second thing, don't let a guilt trip ruin your life."

"She'd never make it in prison, Bobby. She'd give up and die." Scott stared out the window at the sea. "We're her only hope."

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

Two miles beyond their rented beach house on San Luis Pass Road where the Island narrows down to just a finger of sand separating the Gulf of Mexico on their left from Galveston Bay on their right, past beach-front subdivisions called Indian Beach and Pirates Beach and Jamaica Beach and Palm Beach and Sunny Beach, they turned into a subdivision-"Lafitte's Beach — The Treasure of the West End"-situated atop the earthen dune Scott had seen from the beach that morning. It had once been a high-end, palm-tree-lined neighborhood, but most of the homes had been reduced to stilts. The developer's attempt to tame the sea had failed. Ike's surge had crested the dune and taken the houses out to sea.

But not Trey Rawlins' house. It fronted the beach but appeared undamaged. Scott had seen the beach side of the stark white house that morning; now he saw the street side. Two palm trees stood guard out front; the driveway led to four garage doors. Stairs on both sides led to a veranda and the front entrance on the second floor, above which was another story with a pilothouse at the top. Bobby parked at the curb and cut the engine. They stared at the house on Treasure Isle Lane where Trey Rawlins' life had ended.

"Scotty, her prints on the murder weapon-that ain't good."

"I've been blindsided before, but Rex, he's a sly dog, tying off a lure then dropping that bombshell like he's asking if we wanted coffee, see how we'd react."

"Well, I damn near shit my pants."

"He'll never prove motive."

"He won't have to, not with her prints on the knife. Jury'll look past motive real fast. If we're gonna win this case, Scotty, we gotta do two things: explain how her prints got on that knife and put someone else on trial."

"Whoever stuck that knife in Trey Rawlins."

"If she didn't."

"She didn't."

"Scotty, don't forget the first rule when representing a corporate executive or a criminal defendant."

"Assume they're lying?"

"Exactly."

"She's not." He hoped. "You ready?"

"Are you?"

"No, but I've got to go in. You don't."

Bobby blew out a big breath. "What does Pajamae always say? Man up?"

They manned up and got out. The wind off the Gulf was hard and hot. A police cruiser and an unmarked car were also parked out front. A tall, lanky man emerged from the unmarked car and walked over. He was wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, jeans, and a cap that read "Galveston County D.A.'s Office." He looked like Jimmy Buffett with a gun.

"Hank Kowalski. I'm the D.A.'s investigator."

They made introductions, then Hank waved a hand at what was left of the neighborhood. "Used to be million-dollar places. Now you can buy this sand for a song. Before Ike, New York Times likened the Island to the Hamptons. No one's calling it the Hamptons now."

"They're not going to rebuild?"

"Most were second homes owned by out-of-towners. They just said to hell with it, took their insurance money somewhere it don't flood."

Five homes had once stood on that stretch of the beach; now two did, Trey's and another house under repair just a hundred yards down the street where the sound of hammers hitting nails reverberated like guns at a firing range.

"Judge Morgan's place," Hank said. "She's staying in town until it's fixed up."

Brown-skinned workers scrambled over the high roof of the judge's home with no apparent worries about falling forty feet to the sand below. With the three houses in between washed away, the workers would have had an unobstructed line of sight to the Rawlins house. They would have seen Trey and Rebecca coming and going.

"They didn't see anything," Hank said.

"But did they do anything?" Scott said.

"We asked, they denied… in Spanish."

"Illegals?"

"You know any American citizens who'll roof homes in this heat?"

"Did Trey's house sustain any damage?"

"Nope." Hank pointed toward the beach. "Those piers are twenty-five feet above the sand. Water never got up to the house. Heard he spent four million on this place, one million just on hurricane-proofing, but it worked. Ike packed a hundred-ten-miles-per-hour wind, didn't blow a shingle off this place. Come on, I'll give you a tour."

"Okay if we videotape?"

"Rex said whatever you wanted." Hank reached to his back pocket then held out latex gloves. "Wear these-but don't touch nothing."

They all put gloves on. Bobby retrieved the camcorder and the murder book from the car. He handed the book to Scott. Bobby filmed the exterior of the house, then they ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and followed Hank into the garage through a side door. Hank hit a switch; fluorescent light flooded the vast space where a dune buggy, two jet skis, a BMW racing motorcycle, a black Hummer, a red Corvette convertible, and a black Bentley were parked.

"Man liked his toys," Hank said. "Trey motored around the Island on the bike or in the Bentley. Two hundred grand. Your wife drove the Corvette."

Scott could picture Rebecca Fenney driving that Corvette with the top down and a smile on her face, her red hair whipping in the wind, enjoying the envious glances from pedestrians.

"She mentioned a yacht."

Hank nodded. "Down at the marina. We searched it. Nothing. Come on, let's go up. Everything's the same as that night, except for the crime scene processing."

"Nothing's been removed?"

"The body, a three-fifty-seven Magnum revolver, a nine-millimeter Beretta-"

"He had guns?"

"This is Texas, Scott-everyone has guns." Hank chuckled. "Magnum was found under his pillow. Loaded. Not sure how he could sleep with that thing under his head."

"If she wanted to kill him, why didn't she just shoot him?"

Hank shrugged. "Ask her."

"Anything else removed from the house?"

"His wallet, cell phone, cash, jewelry, and laptop. We're checking calls, emails, websites he frequented, fan mail to his website. I'll get you copies of everything."

They climbed stairs from the garage floor to the second story. Hank unlocked a door, and Scott entered the house where his wife had lived with another man. Scott tamped down his rising emotions and scolded himself: Think like a lawyer, not like a man.

"Maid came twice a week," Hank said. "Mondays and Thursdays. She was here that day."

They followed Hank into a kitchen with a stained concrete floor and stainless steel appliances, cabinets, and countertops. Scott put on his glasses-he used to wear them just to appear smart to his rich clients; now, after sixteen years of reading the law, he actually needed them-and opened the murder book. He found the photos and evidence collection report for the kitchen.

"No blood was found in the kitchen?"

"Nope. But we got prints-his, hers, the maid's, and one unidentified set. Right there." Hank pointed to a spot on the island counter where black fingerprint dust marred the shiny steel finish. "Full hand prints. We figure male, and a big man from the size. He must've been leaning onto the counter."

"You run them?"

Hank nodded. "No match. He's not in the system."

Hank pulled a drawer open. Inside were seven steel knives in a tray with molded spaces for eight knives. The biggest space was empty.

"Murder weapon," Hank said. "Butcher knife. Her prints are on it."

"So Rex said. Would you open all the drawers and cabinets?"

Hank did, and Bobby filmed everything. "Nice liquor cabinet. Trey liked the good stuff."

"And the refrigerator, Hank."

It was a double-wide with a freezer drawer below. Hank held the door open while Bobby squatted and filmed the contents and narrated.

"Beer… a bottle of wine… protein bars… lots of chocolate milk… and the biggest watermelon I've ever seen."

Scott put his hands on his knees and peered into the refrigerator. The watermelon occupied one entire shelf. It had been split in half, lengthwise. The red pulp lay exposed like brain matter.

"Just the way we found it," Hank said. "Nothing's been touched."

The kitchen opened onto a living room with leather furniture, a fireplace, a flat-screen television on the wall, and a bank of windows that offered a stunning view of the beach and sea. Scott's mind conjured up scenes from Rebecca's life here, with another man, the same scenes he had played over and over the last two years, like reruns of his favorite show. Now he had the actual setting for those scenes. His emotions rose again, so he consciously forced himself to focus on his job as her lawyer instead of his regrets as her husband.

Think like a lawyer, not like a man.

"No evidence was collected from the living room," Hank said. "Let's go upstairs first, then we'll come back down to the crime scene. You might need some fresh air after that."

They climbed a set of stairs to the third floor which had two guest bedrooms and baths and a home theater. No evidence had been discovered or collected from any of the third-floor rooms, so Hank led them up another set of stairs to the pilothouse.

"Trey's office."

Wood-framed windows surrounded the space. The street was visible out the front, the beach and sea out the back. The room was wood and leather with a wet bar. Golf trophies crowded shelves, and photos of Trey with other famous golfers and framed golf magazines with Trey on the covers hung on the walls. In one corner three putters stood against the wall and balls waited below on a putting mat that ran the length of the room, as if Trey had practiced his putting that morning. In another corner sat a massive white golf bag with Trey Rawlins in black script down the side.

"You go through the bag?" Scott asked.

"Nothing except golf balls and condoms."

" Condoms? "

Hank shrugged. "For the rain delays, I guess."

"I'd hate to drag that bag up those stairs," Bobby said.

"He didn't have to." Hank went over to the wood wall and opened a closet-except it wasn't a closet. It was a dumb waiter big enough for a pro golf bag-or a human being. Hank pushed a button inside the door; the elevator slowly descended.

"Opens down in the garage," Hank said. "No prints, no blood."

"The killer could have entered the house that way."

"She didn't have to, Scott. She lived here."

Scott stepped over to the desk. A phone, a pad, and a pen sat at the ready. There was a vacant space front and center.

"Laptop was right there." Hank pulled the desk drawers open for Bobby to film. He opened a lower drawer and said, "Trey kept this one locked."

"Why?"

"See for yourself."

Bobby aimed the camera down and whistled. "Chocolate milk wasn't the only thing Trey had a taste for."

Scott came around the desk. Inside the drawer were dozens of DVDs with naked girls on the covers and titles like Fleshcapades and Virgin Territory. Scott's eyes met Bobby's, and he knew they were thinking the same thought: all-American boys don't watch pornography. Bobby couldn't restrain a smile.

"Got porn?"

They weren't shocked; porn was part of the culture now. They were excited-not by the porn-but by the crack in the "good Trey" they had seen on TV. Was Trey Rawlins another star athlete whose perfect public image belied a dark private life? Nothing excites a criminal defense lawyer more than a victim's dark side revealed-it takes the jury's focus off the defendant and puts it on the victim. A savvy defense lawyer puts the victim on trial. Would Scott put Trey on trial to save Rebecca's life?

"Aw, hell," Hank said, "you can rent this stuff at the family video store. Stay at the best hotels and you can get room service and hardcore. Myself, I'd rather watch football-less violent."

"Maybe so, but porn doesn't exactly fit his golden boy image."

"Everyone's got their secrets," Hank said.

"Question is," Bobby said, "did Trey Rawlins have any other secrets?"

They pondered that possibility for a moment, then Hank said, "Let's do it."

They followed Hank downstairs and to the door leading into the master bedroom. Hank stopped and reached to his back pocket then handed a small plastic trash bag to each of them.

"What's this for?" Scott asked.

"So you don't contaminate the crime scene."

Hank opened the door, and Scott stepped inside a dark space that smelled like his mother's bedroom the day she had died. Death had its own smell.

"Brace yourself, boys."

Hank hit a switch, and bright lights illuminated the room like an OR.

" Jesus."

The blood took Scott's breath away.

The bedroom was stark white-white bed, white walls, white tile floor, white furniture, white curtains. The blood offered the only color. It was everywhere. It didn't seem possible that one human body contained that much blood.

"Didn't take luminol to find the blood at this crime scene," Hank said. "Knife cut his aorta, heart pumped till it gave out."

Scott stared at the bloody bed where his wife had had sex with another man… and where that man had died. He thought he had long ago come to terms with the fact that his wife had lain with another man. He was wrong. He was just now coming to terms with that fact-with that image-of Rebecca and another man-in that bed-having sex… and then someone stabbing that butcher knife into his chest while he slept. Had Rebecca been that someone? His face flashed hot. He couldn't seem to get a breath in the stale air.

"Scotty, you don't look so good."

"Use the bag!" Hank said.

Hank opened the French doors. The sea breeze blew in and freshened the air. After a few minutes, Scott could breathe again. He tried to block the image of his wife and Trey from his mind and to think like a lawyer instead of a man. But he couldn't help thinking, What the hell am I doing here?

"Bad time to quit smoking," Bobby said.

"Okay," Hank said, "here's the lay of the land." He walked over to the bed, stepping carefully to avoid the blood on the floor. "Trey was found lying on the far side of the bed, away from the deck doors."

Scott turned the pages of the murder book until he found the photos of the victim: Trey Rawlins lying naked in that bed, the butcher knife embedded in his chest, his body soaked in blood. Scott looked up from the photo to the bed. Nothing had changed, except the blood seemed a darker shade and Trey's body was gone.

"Your wife slept on this side, near the doors. Said she woke at three-forty-five Friday morning with a chill, said the doors leading to the deck were open. She got up to close the doors but went out onto the deck."

"Any blood on the doors or the door handles?"

"Nope."

"So the doors were open?"

"Yep."

"Prints?"

"His and hers." Hank motioned to them. "Come on… watch out for the bloody footprints. Hers."

They followed Hank out the doors and onto the white wood deck, stepping around more bloody footprints, and over to the far railing. Scott inhaled the sea air. Seagulls circled above the surf in search of fish. A shrimp boat headed into port with that day's catch, and an oil tanker headed out to sea. From the judge's house down the street came the sounds of Spanish and hammers. A lone jogger ran past on the beach below and gave them a wave. Little egrets darted after sea life stranded out of water as if they could care less that a human being had died in this house just five days before.

"Said she stood here at the railing," Hank said, "looking out to sea. Spray hit her, she wiped her face, felt wet, looked at her hands. Saw something dark, ran inside and turned the lights on." Hank turned to Scott. "You ready?"

"For what?"

"To go back in."

He wasn't. He did not want to confront the blood again. But he took a few more deep breaths and followed Hank back inside. Hank pointed at blood on the white curtains and the wall around the light switch.

"That's when she saw Trey. She called nine-one-one."

He pointed at the white phone. More blood.

"Cops came up the back stairs to the deck and through these doors, found her standing right here, holding the phone."

"She talked to the dispatcher the entire time?"

"Yep. Nine-one-one call's in the book. On a CD."

"She didn't do anything after she called?"

"Nope. Just before."

Scott viewed the photos of his ex-wife from that night, standing there in a short white nightgown soaked in blood and looking like a frightened child.

"Detective came out, questioned her, arrested her, took her to jail. They collected a blood sample and her clothes. It's all in the book."

"All the bloody prints-on the floor, the wall, the phone," Scott said, "they're hers?"

"Yep."

"No other prints in the entire room?"

"Not in blood. But we lifted the maid's prints and two other sets, both unidentified. Not in the system."

"Where?"

Hank pointed. "One set on the headboard, about middle of the bed-"

"Film this, Bobby."

— "like someone was holding on."

Bobby raised an eyebrow to Scott.

"No other prints?"

"Nope. And we dusted damn near every inch of this room."

"What about the other set?"

"In the closet."

Hank led them into the master bathroom. The center room featured a glassed-in shower and a Jacuzzi tub. Scott imagined Rebecca reclining in a bubble bath with a glass of wine after a hard day at Neiman Marcus, as she often had in their bathroom. Leading off each side were separate his and her vanities and dressing rooms.

"This one was Trey's," Hank said.

They followed Hank into a spacious dressing room with wood shelves and drawers, a leather sofa and chair, a full-length mirror, and a flat-screen TV on the wall. The racks were filled with men's clothes, mostly golf apparel and golf shoes.

"Right there," Hank said, "two full palm prints on the mirror. Probably female, from the size."

Hank was pointing at the mirror about six feet up. The prints were aligned in a way that suggested the person was leaning into the mirror with her hands spread out above, as if being frisked by a cop or…

Another raised eyebrow from Bobby.

"These unidentified prints," Scott said, "the ones on the kitchen counter, the bed headboard, and this mirror-they're all from different persons?"

"Yep."

"And no matches?"

"Nope. They're not in the FBI database. You get fingerprinted once, you're in the database forever."

"So we know at least three different people other than Trey and Rebecca and the maid were in this house at some time and none of them has ever been arrested?"

"Or worked in child care or as a school bus driver or a federal employee."

"What do you mean?"

"You want to work for the federal government or do anything with kids, you gotta get printed and pass a criminal background check first."

"Really?"

"Yep. When I started with the Bureau, I did background checks for federal agents, attorneys, judges… Pretty damn boring, so I transferred to the Drug Task Force, over in El Paso."

"When did you say the maid came?"

"Mondays and Thursdays."

"So she was here that same day?"

"Yep."

"Did she clean the surfaces where the prints were found?"

Hank frowned. "Good question."

"If she wiped those surfaces Thursday, then the prints would have been made between the time she left and when the cops arrived and sealed off the house as a crime scene Friday morning."

"Cops' prints are in the system, and everyone who entered the house wore gloves."

"Hank, those prints might belong to the murderer."

"Except only your wife's prints are on the murder weapon."

"You got the maid's number?"

"In the book."

Hank took the murder book from Scott and turned to the witnesses section. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. After a moment, he said, "Rosie Gonzales?… Hank Kowalski, with the district attorney's office… That's right, we spoke Friday. Rosie, when you cleaned the Rawlins house last Thursday, did you wipe the island counter in the kitchen?… With soap and Clorox and Pine-Sol?… Okay, what about the headboard in the master bedroom?… Unh-huh… And what about the mirror in Mr. Rawlins' closet?… Was anyone else in the house that day?… When did you leave?… Okay. Thanks."

Hank ended the call and turned to Scott.

"She cleaned the kitchen counters Thursday, finished at noon, so those prints were put there sometime after she left and before the murder."

"What about the other prints?"

"She didn't clean the headboard or the mirror that day. Does that once a month."

"So those prints could have been put there in the last month?"

"Yep."

They returned to Trey's bathroom. Hank opened the cabinets, and Bobby filmed the contents, the usual male paraphernalia and several bottles of prescription pills.

"What was he taking?" Scott asked.

Hank held up one prescription bottle. "Viagra."

"Porn and Viagra," Bobby said with a smile. "Trey Rawlins endorsed more than just golf clubs and chocolate milk."

"CIA's bribing Afghan warlords with these blue pills," Hank said. "Most of the agents I worked with at the Bureau took them. Hell, most men I know take 'em."

"We don't. Do we, Bobby?"

"Well, uh…"

Scott turned to Bobby. "You take Viagra?"

Bobby shrugged. "I'm married to a woman ten years younger than me. There's a lot of pressure."

"What about all that 'I'm bald because I'm loaded with testosterone' stuff?"

"Hey, my first two wives left me. I'm not taking any chances with Karen."

Scott turned back to Hank. "What about the other pills?"

"One's a beta-blocker, blood pressure medicine. The other's Prozac."

"Isn't that for depression?"

Hank nodded. "My wife takes it. Says being married to me is depressing."

They followed Hank into Rebecca's dressing room, every square inch of which was packed with dresses, shirts, slacks, shorts, coats, sweaters, scarves, hats, and shoes-a lot of shoes.

"She sure likes shoes," Hank said.

"You should've seen her closet when we were married."

"A woman is an expensive habit."

"Why would she kill Trey and give all this up?"

"Maybe he was giving her up."

"He proposed to her that night."

"So she said."

"Rex said we could take her clothes."

Hank nodded. "I gotta watch what you take."

Scott stepped to a dresser and opened several long flat drawers. All contained lingerie. The sexy stuff. As if this were a Victoria's Secret showroom instead of a closet. In the top drawer were complete sets with the price tags still attached, apparently from her shopping trip that Thursday. He held one set up: black lace bustier… matching garter belt… black sheer hose with a seam up the back… and a matching black thong. Scott stared at the undergarment, imagining Rebecca wearing this outfit for Trey. He wasn't sure how long he had been staring before he snapped to the fact that he wasn't alone. He turned and saw Hank and Bobby staring at the tiny thong he was holding up. He felt his face flush. He dropped the thong into the drawer.

He was thinking like a man.

"Bobby, call Rebecca and see what she wants, okay?"

"Yeah, Scotty, I'll do this."

Scott walked out of the closet.

Thirty minutes later, Scott was outside leaning against the Jetta when Bobby and Hank appeared; each carried two oversized trash bags. Scott opened the back door. They tossed the bags inside the car.

"What'd she want?" Scott asked.

"Everything. We bagged up the entire closet."

They made two more trips into the house for her clothes. Then Scott and Bobby shook hands with Hank and climbed into the Jetta. Scott started the engine and turned the air conditioner on high. They sat in silence until Bobby said, "Jesus, that bedroom looked like a Tarantino movie."

More silence followed, then Bobby turned to him.

"Scotty, what are we doing here?"

Scott did not answer. Because he did not have an answer.

"Bobby, you thinking what I'm thinking, about those prints on the headboard and mirror?"

"Yep. They're from women. One holding onto the headboard, the other leaning into the mirror. Our all-American boy took Viagra, watched porn, and had sex with two other women in that house in the last month."