Mark Gimenez - Accused

"Toxicology?"

"Pending."

"DNA?"

"Also pending."

"Can we see the crime scene?"

The D.A. nodded. "Figured you'd want to see it, so we left it exactly as we found it, except for the body. When?"

"Now."

"I'll have my investigator open the house for you." The D.A. put his reading glasses on, picked up his phone, and dialed. He spoke into the phone. "Hank? Rex. Meet Scott Fenney and Bobby Herrin at the Rawlins house… Yeah, they're representing the Fenney woman… His ex… That's what I said… Give him full access… Now." He hung up. "You'll like Hank. Ex-FBI, worked the Drug Task Force down on the border. Retired here, for the fishing. I talked him into working for me."

"Why can't Rebecca get back into her house?" Scott asked.

"It's not her house."

"She lived there."

The D.A. turned his palms up. "Take it up with Melvyn and the sister."

"Who's the judge on this case?"

"Shelby Morgan. Forty, attractive, single."

"Attractive?"

"Shelby's a gal… and ambitious-never a good trait in a judge, male or female. But she's BOI, from an old-line family, like Ted here, so she's our judge. She wants to move up, been waiting for a case like this for years, something with potential."

"For what?"

"Publicity. This case could be her stepping stone."

"Great."

The D.A. chuckled. "You'll like her… about as much as hemorrhoids. Speaking of which, I need to warn you."

"What about?"

"Renee Ramirez. Houston TV reporter, she covers the Galveston beat. Good-looking gal, but annoying as hell. She's an IBC–Islander by choice. BOIs don't trust IBCs."

"I dodged her at the jail yesterday."

The D.A. nodded. "She's a looker, ain't she? Got the body of a Playmate and the bite of a pit bull. And she's got her teeth into this case, been calling every day. I don't try my cases in the press, Scott, so she won't get anything from this office. But she's been pining for a network job, might see this case as her ticket, so watch out for her."

"The American way, everyone using a murder case to move up in the world." Scott shook his head. "What about her clothes?"

"Oh, Renee dresses real nice-tight pants, short skirts-she's got great legs and-"

"Not her clothes. Rebecca's."

"Oh."

"Can we take them?"

The D.A. nodded. "Just let Hank watch what you take."

"What about her makeup?"

"Isn't there a law says a woman's entitled to makeup?"

"Jewelry?"

"Talk to Melvyn."

"Thanks, Rex."

The D.A. nodded then said, "Scott, you ever been to a murder scene?"

"No."

"Well… it ain't like on TV."

Scott picked up the murder book and stood. He and Bobby walked to the door, but Scott turned back and said, "There's a good explanation."

"For what?"

"Her prints on the knife."

"I'd like to hear that explanation… when you figure it out."

"She's the only suspect?"

The D.A. gestured at the bloody butcher knife on the desk. "Only her prints on the murder weapon."

"She didn't have a motive to murder. You know anyone who did?"

"Who'd want to kill Trey?"

"Rex-that's what I intend to find out."

"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?"