Mark Gimenez - Accused

Scott sighed and said, "Ex-wife."

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 Renee 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.