Mark Gimenez - Accused

He ran west, away from the rising sun. The wet sand glistened in the morning light and felt spongy beneath his shoes. The tide was out, and the beach sat wide, filled with a fresh assortment of seashells and sand crabs scurrying sideways and jellyfish stranded out of water. Seagulls picked over dead fish, and a pelican stood witness. The wind was down, the sea smooth, and the waves low swells instead of whitecaps. The air was fresh, and the beach was his.

He ran hard to burn up his desire for her. All that time without her, now they were suddenly living together again. He hadn't bargained for that. But then, he wasn't sure what he had bargained for when he agreed to defend her. It wasn't a lawyerly decision; it was a manly decision. He needed to know how he had failed her as a man.

Scott Fenney did not have to confront his past during that morning's run-because he was now living it.

Shortly after Rebecca had left him, a Dallas divorce lawyer who had suffered the same marital fate had shared with Scott his "seven stages of wife desertion":

(1) disbelief-you're numb with shock that your wife had actually left you for another man;

(2) denial-you decide she must have a brain tumor, the only plausible explanation for such bizarre behavior;

(3) anger-you lash out at her for betraying you;

(4) remorse-you promise to change if she will only return so life can be the same again;

(5) shame-you isolate yourself because you know that everywhere you go everyone knows;

(6) blame-she left you and your child, but somehow you failed her. You blame yourself. It was your fault.

The first five stages, Scott had discovered, pass in due course. But the blame stage lasts… forever? And only when he had escaped from the sixth stage would he embark on the final stage: (7) recovery.

Would he ever recover from Rebecca Fenney?

He saw her in the distance, a lone figure dressed in white standing on the beach before a stark white house rising in sharp relief against the blue morning sky. The sun's rays highlighted her and the house and made them both glow. The sand rose up from the beach to a low manmade earthen dune, the developer's apparent attempt to tame the sea. The front portion of the house sat atop the dune, the back half atop tall stilts. But this was not a beach bungalow rented out to tourists and college kids on spring break. It was a four-story multimillion-dollar residence with a second-story deck extending out toward the sea; stairs led from the deck down to the beach. Yellow crime scene tape stretched between police barricades staked out around the perimeter of the house. He stopped running and walked to her. She felt his presence and turned to him. Tears ran down her face.

"I dreamed last night that he was just at a tournament, and he came back. How can he be gone?"

She buried her face in his bare chest. Her tears felt cool on his hot skin, and she felt good in his arms. No matter what she had done to him, they still shared a child. When a man and a woman come together and create another human being, they forge a bond that is never broken. The marriage might break, but that bond does not. And so he now embraced that woman, the mother of his child, not the woman who had deserted him for another man. He held her and let her cry until she had cried out. Only then did he say, "Rebecca, what happened that night?"

"I woke up and found him. Dead."

"Before that."

She wiped her face. "We had dinner at Gaido's."

"What time?"

"Seven."

"Did you drink?"

"We both did."

"Were you drunk?"

"We were celebrating."

"What?"

She hesitated and turned away. "Trey asked me to marry him."

"After two years?"

She shrugged.

"What did you say?"

"I said yes."

Two years and it still hurt.

"Who saw you there?"

"Other locals… Ricardo, our regular waiter."

"Did you argue?"

"With Ricardo?"

"With Trey."

"No. We were happy. It was a special night."

"Did Ricardo hear Trey propose to you?"

"I don't think so. But we told him later."

"Then what happened?"

"We came home."

"Who drove?"

"Trey. He never let me drive the Bentley."

"He had a Bentley?"

"Convertible. It's in the garage."

"What time did you get home?"

"Ten."

"Long dinner."

"Like I said, it was a special night."

"Then what?"

"We took a walk on the beach. Right here. Then we went to bed."

"What time?"

"Eleven. Trey was going to get up early, practice for the Open."

"Then you woke up?"

"I was cold."

Her eyes fixed on the deck above them. Her voice was dispassionate, as if she had been a third-party observer of the events that night.

"The bedroom's right there, just off the deck. We slept with the French doors open, to hear the waves. I got up to close the doors, but I came out onto the deck. It's quiet out here, just the waves… the sea spray hit me, I wiped my face… but I still felt wet… I looked down at myself, saw something dark all over me… I ran back inside, turned the lights on… blood was everywhere… all over him… all over me. I slept in his blood."

She started crying again. He put an arm around her shoulders.

"Rebecca-"

He waited until she turned to him. He needed to look into her eyes when he asked the next question-and when she answered.

— "did you kill him?"

She did not avert her eyes.

"No. I swear to God. Scott, I loved him."

And Scott Fenney had loved her. Maybe he still did. He wasn't sure. But he was sure about one thing: after eleven years of marriage-eleven years sharing the same bed-he knew her. Rebecca Fenney was not a murderer.

They walked back to the beach house and found Consuela and Louis cooking breakfast, Karen feeding Maria-the baby wasn't taking to the broccoli any better that day-and Bobby, Carlos, and the girls watching TV. Boo jumped up and ran to him.

"A. Scott, we've got cable!"

"Just for the summer-and only the Disney Channel."

She looked at him with an expression that said, As if, but she said, "Did you check your pulse?"

"No."

"Do you feel faint or dizzy? Are you experiencing chest pain?"

"Boo, I feel fine. Stop worrying."

She frowned and turned to Rebecca. "Mother, you were gone when we woke up."

"I took a walk on the beach."

"I would've gone with you."

"Get dressed, Bobby," Scott said. "We're going to see the D.A. And bring the camcorder. Karen, take Rebecca's statement."

"Mr. Fenney," Louis said, "how about some pancakes and sausage?"

"Maybe one. Or two. Of each."

"Coming right up."

"Louis, go over to Gaido's today… Carlos, you go with him, you might need to translate. Talk to a waiter named Ricardo. Find out what he knows, if he saw any strangers there Thursday night, someone who seemed interested in Trey." Scott went into the kitchen and stepped close to Louis; he faced away from the room and said in a low voice, "Ask him if he heard Trey propose to Rebecca."

Louis nodded. Scott turned back to the room.

"Let's go, boys and girls, it's a work day."

Scott ate breakfast then showered and dressed in what would be his standard Island attire: jeans, topsiders, and a knit shirt. He only wore suits to court now, a benefit of not working in a large law firm, albeit one that did not quite offset the $750,000 salary. He went downstairs and out to the back deck where Karen was interviewing Rebecca. He paused and observed his ex-wife like a juror observing the defendant's demeanor. She was the accused and the only eyewitness. The jury would have to believe Rebecca Fenney.

"Rebecca," Karen said, "what'd you do after you came back inside and found Trey lying in bed with a knife in his chest?"

"I called nine-one-one."