Accused

TWENTY-FIVE

"Just like in the book, Mr. Fenney," Louis said. "Ain't no country for old men."

Benito Estrada maintained offices in a renovated three-story historical structure situated between a yoga studio and the Black Pearl Oyster Bar on Market Street in the trendy part of downtown Galveston. It had the appearance of a real-estate office, except for the two thick-bodied Latinos standing guard out front under a red awning like unhappy doormen. Hank was right: Benito's thugs were big. Their loose Mexican wedding shirts bulged at the waist, obviously concealing handguns. They were armed and dangerous and perfectly within the law in Texas. As long as their guns were concealed, they were legal.

"Working for the cartel," Carlos said, "you ain't gonna grow old."

Scott had sent Bobby and Karen back to the beach house. They were soon to be parents, and they were the girls' guardians under A. Scott Fenney's Last Will and Testament. They didn't need to be in the line of fire. Scott had driven past the building then stopped a half block down the street to plot out a strategy. No strategy had occurred to him when Carlos said, "I'll handle this, boss. These are my people."

Carlos stepped smartly down the sidewalk, clad in black leather from head to foot, past a silver Maserati parked along the curb and over to the thugs. He gave them a hearty smile, stuck his hand out, and said, " Buenos dias, amigos. "

"Fuck off," the taller thug said.

Carlos recoiled and withdrew his hand. The smiled dropped from his face, and his shoulders slumped. He looked like a kid who had been dissed on the playground. He beat a retreat back to Scott and Louis, who patted him on the shoulder.

"Must not know they're your people."

Carlos exhaled and shook his head as if faced with an imponderable mystery.

"Folks these days, they just can't be friendly. Why is that?"

"We live in a conflicted time," Louis said. "Folks struggling to find meaning in their lives. When they don't, their frustrations manifest in hostility toward their fellow man."

"You really think that's it, with those guys?"

Louis stared at the thugs. "I think those guys are assholes need to be stuffed down a concrete culvert."

Louis said it as if he had some experience with that sort of thing. Scott was about to take his chances with the thugs when a familiar unmarked sedan pulled up to the curb next to them. Hank Kowalski got out. His big gun was prominently displayed on his hip.

"Rex thought maybe I should drop by."

"Thanks, Hank. But let me take a shot at these guys first. So to speak."

Scott walked over to the thugs and held his business card out in front of him like a white flag of surrender-but he was relieved to hear the others' footsteps behind him.

"I'm Scott Fenney. Is Mr. Estrada available?"

"No, he ain't available," the shorter thug said.

"Would you mind checking? It's about Trey Rawlins. I'm a lawyer representing Rebecca Fenney."

The thugs glanced at each other then at Hank; the taller one said, "Wait here." He took Scott's card and went inside. The other thug maintained his position in front of the door. A few minutes later, the taller one returned and gestured at Scott.

"Benito will see you."

They all took a step toward the door.

"Only the lawyer."

Scott turned to the others. "I'll be okay. Wait here."

"Mr. Fenney," Louis said, "if you want, I could break both their necks."

The thugs' eyes got wide. Hank chuckled.

"No, Louis, just be cool."

Scott followed the taller thug inside and to the elevators.

"Hands up."

Scott put his hands in the air. The thug patted him down then said, "Third floor."

Scott stepped inside the elevator and punched the button for the third floor. The elevator made a smooth journey up two levels then the doors opened on a young, handsome, meticulously groomed Latino man dressed in a pink Polo shirt that hung like silk, white creased shorts, and huaraches. His black hair was smoothed back, and his goatee was expertly trimmed. His cologne smelled expensive. He offered a bright smile and an open hand to Scott. He was unarmed.

"Mr. Fenney, I am Benito Estrada. It is an honor to meet you."

Scott shook Benito's hand. "Why?"

"The hooker's case, up in Dallas. Took cojones to go on national TV and call a U.S. senator a criminal… just like it took cojones to walk up to mis amigos downstairs and say you want to see Benito Estrada. I like that."

"Then you'll really like this: Did you kill Trey Rawlins?"

Benito chuckled. "Perhaps you would like something to drink, Mr. Fenney? Spring water, herbal tea, espresso-I have Starbucks?"

"No, thanks. And call me Scott."

"And I am Benito. Please, come in."

The elevator was at one end of an office that occupied the entire third floor of the building. A large desk stood along one wall and above the desk was a bank of closed-circuit TVs showing the street scene around the building. On one screen were Hank, Carlos, and Louis-mostly Louis.

"Now that is a bodyguard," Benito said.

A sitting area with a leather couch and chairs stretched along one wall of windows and a wet bar along the third wall with a flat-screen TV mounted above. It reminded Scott of Nick Madden's office, absent the game tables. And Nick and Benito had a mutual client.

"Why have you come to me?" Benito asked.

"Trey's last phone conversation was with you."

"Ah."

"Why'd you agree to see me?"

Benito smiled. "Never know when I might need a good defense lawyer."

"I don't represent drug dealers. I have kids."

"I do not sell to kids. I am a businessman, selling the people what they want."

"They may want it, but they don't need it."

"No different than the State of Texas selling lottery tickets to poor people."

"The lottery is legal. Your business isn't."

"Just because the state made theirs legal. And give it a few years, people are sick of funding the war on drugs. They want to spend those billions on health care. They do not care if someone snorts coke or shoots heroin or if their drug habit kills thousands of Mexicans each year. Eighteen metric tons of heroin cross the border each year, five hundred tons of cocaine, fifteen thousand tons of marijuana, God knows how much meth- gringos want their drugs and they are going to get them, from someone. Might as well be me. And no, I did not kill Trey."

"Will you take a polygraph?"

"They indicted your wife for his murder, not me."

"Did Trey buy cocaine from you?"

"Let us sit."

Benito escorted Scott to the sitting area. He sat on the couch facing the window; Benito sat in a chair facing Scott and crossed his legs. He gestured at the window behind him.

"Across the street, the Feds have cameras on my front door twenty-four/seven. I feel like a Hollywood movie star, and they are my paparazzi."

"How long did you know Trey?"

"We grew up together. He lived in the nice part of town, the south side near the beach. I lived in the housing projects on the north side, near the docks. I now live on the beach, and the projects, they are gone, washed away by Ike. As are the Latinos and the blacks. They all moved to the mainland, no place to live here. The Anglos, like your friend Senator Armstrong, they hope the Latinos and blacks will stay gone from the Island. They think it will be good for business, if the rich tourists do not see us. BOIs have always treated us like IBCs, like we do not belong on the Island, even if we too were born here. But Trey, he did not treat me that way. He treated me like a human being. He came to my apartment, dated my sister, took her to the prom, gave her the corsage of white carnations as if she were the Anglo prom queen. We were like brothers."

"How'd you get into this business?" Scott said.

"Went to Harvard, minority scholarship. No jobs on Wall Street, credit crunch and all, so I came back to the Island. But the only jobs for a minority-even with a Harvard degree-are waiting tables for tourists. When this position came open a couple years ago-"

"How?"

Benito sighed. "My predecessor, he cooked the books."

"What happened to him?"

"I did not ask."

"But you sold to Trey?"

"Yes."

"A lot?"

"On a regular basis."

"Did he come here?"

"No. He knew about the surveillance, they would spot that black Bentley or that BMW bike, know it was him. He was high-profile here on the Island. It would not do his career any good to be seen on TV entering my office, so he required a more discreet arrangement. I made deliveries personally, to his house."

"You do that for a lot of your customers?"

"Only two. Now only one."

"So you've been in his house?"

"Of course."

"Have you ever been arrested?"

"Twice. Charges were dismissed."

"But you were fingerprinted?"

"Yes."

Benito's prints were in the system, which meant his prints did not match the unidentified prints at the crime scene.

"You seem to operate without much interference from the law."

Benito smiled. "Let us just say that no one wants me on the witness stand, telling the world who my customers are."

"Let's stick with one customer. How'd you make the deliveries to Trey's house?"

"He gave me a key to the garage door. I put the product in the dumb waiter, pushed the up button for the fourth floor. His office."

"How often did you make deliveries?"

"Weekly."

"When?"

Benito shrugged. "Whenever."

"During the day?"

"Yes."

"And how did he pay you?"

"When I returned, the money would be waiting for me."

"In the dumb waiter?"

"In the Hummer."

"So you had no problems with Trey?"

"I did not say that."

"What was the problem?"

"Trey owed me five hundred thousand dollars."

"That's a lot of cocaine."

"It is very high quality. He wanted only the best. And I assumed he shared with your wife."

"So why didn't he pay? He was rich."

"He did not inform me when he went on tour, so I made my weekly deliveries. He would be gone two, three, sometimes four weeks at a time. I would put each week's delivery in the dumb waiter, with the prior deliveries. He would collect the deliveries when he returned, and he always paid me in full. This past April, he went on tour again-I know, because I saw him on TV, he missed a very short putt and lost-but this time the dumb waiter was empty every week. And there was no money in the Hummer. So I assumed he had someone collect it for him, send it to him on tour."

Benito exhaled heavily.

"I trusted Trey. Like a brother. So one day he called me, said he had been out of town for six weeks, said he needed a delivery. I said he must first pay what he owed, five hundred thousand. He said he did not receive the deliveries. I explained how I had made the deliveries, how the dumb waiter was empty each week…"

Benito shook his head; he seemed genuinely upset.

"He accused me of cheating him."

"Did you?"

"No. I made the deliveries."

"So what happened to the cocaine?"

"I do not know. But he should have stopped delivery while he was gone, like you do with your newspaper. Risk of loss passes to the buyer upon delivery. That is the law."

"What, you were going to sue him?"

"We do not file lawsuits."

"You kill."

"I don't."

"The Muertos do. Did they know Trey owed you?"

Benito nodded. "I am a distributor. They handle collections."

"Benito, why are you telling me all this?"

He stroked his goatee and sighed. "Because I am afraid that I failed my brother. The last few months, Trey was not the same person I knew. At first, I thought it must be the cocaine, he was using more and more. But now I think not. I think there was more going on."

"What?"

"I do not know. But he seemed very stressed. And afraid. He bought guns."

"Maybe to protect himself from the Muertos."

"Maybe. Maybe someone else. Scott, I do not want your wife to go to prison for a crime she did not commit."

"You think she's innocent?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You are defending her-why do you think she is innocent?" Benito sat back. "A black hooker accused of murdering a senator's son and now your ex-wife accused of murdering a pro golfer-why do you take on such causes? For the money?"

"What money?"

"For the fame?"

"I don't want fame."

"Then why do you do it?"

Scott sighed. "I'm not sure."

"And do you think you will be able to prove that she is innocent? Your wife?"

"She's innocent until proven guilty."

"Scott, I am Latino. I know the reality of the law."

"You spoke to Trey on the phone the night he was killed?"

"Yes."

"Did you talk about his debt?"

"Yes. I was trying to save his life."

"How?"

"To get him to pay what he owed, so the cartel did not send the Muertos after him. He was my friend, Scott. I did not want to see him harmed."

"Did they send in the Muertos? "

"Perhaps. But I do not think so."

"Why not?"

"Because she is still alive. Your wife."