Mark Gimenez - Accused

"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…