Mark Gimenez - Accused

Nick snorted. "The players need lawyers like you?" To Scott: "Tour's run by a buncha fucking lawyers now. You ever read the Rules of Golf? Like reading the tax code."

Royce shrugged. "World's run by lawyers. Don't like it, get a law degree."

"You ever go to Tiger's home? Get him to pee in a cup?"

"You mean, did I quit my job?" Royce chuckled. "Tiger's not on the tour, Scott, he is the tour. Or he was." He shook his head as if a close friend had died. "He drives his Caddy into a tree and fourteen girls fall out. Porn stars, Ambien sex, nailing the college gal next door-which is creepy even for a pro athlete." Royce sighed. "We may never recover from that fucking fiasco."

There was a moment of reverent silence for the Tiger Woods fiasco. Then Nick's head came up.

"Does Ambien really work?"

"Fourteen gals, it must," Royce said.

"Do you need a prescription for that?"

"For fourteen gals? You're gonna need more than a sleeping pill, Nick, trust me."

Royce turned to Scott.

"Tiger's been our meal ticket for thirteen years-the tour, the networks, even the other players-prize money's increased two hundred million since he turned pro. He made golf cool. Popular. And profitable. Without him, we're back to a bunch of pudgy-ass white boys nobody wants to watch. We're desperate for another big star, insurance that there'll be a tour if Tiger strays off the course for good. Or we'll all be looking for a job."

"And you thought Trey might be that guy?"

"We hoped so. He won his first tournament, just like Tiger. Fans responded to him-it's a star system, and he could've been a big star. But cocaine and gambling, he crossed the line. We've got to protect our public image."

Nick laughed. "Players don't give a shit what the public thinks, Royce. Twenty million people are out of work, they can't afford health insurance, their homes are being foreclosed, but these guys out here are lunching on lobster in the clubhouse and bitching because Obama's raising their taxes so poor folks can have health care and-"

Royce was glaring at Nick. "You voted for Obama, didn't you? I knew it! You're a goddamned closet Democrat, aren't you, Nick?"

"No. I'm not. I didn't. I swear."

Royce pointed an accusing finger at Nick. "Players find out you voted for Obama, you're fucking through as an agent!"

"I swear to God, Royce-I've never voted in my life!"

Royce gave the agent a look of disgust, then turned back to Scott. "You see the NBA playoffs, that Denver player walking off the court giving the Dallas fans the finger? Our golfers don't do that. They know the tour is their golden goose, so they play the pro-ams, they do the charity appearances, they say all the right things in public-we give them media training so they don't say anything stupid-they play the game on and off the course. They keep their noses clean. Trey, he stuffed coke up his nose and pissed away his money in Vegas. We couldn't let one player kill the golden goose."

"Sounds like a motive."

"To kill him?" Royce laughed. "Shit, I'd have to get in line out here."

"He wasn't well liked?"

"Bit of an understatement. Everyone hated his guts… except the tour women, his dealer, his bookie… and your wife."

"Ex-wife. What were you hoping for?"

Royce shrugged. "Maybe a head-on with a semi on that racing bike."

Scott shook his head. "On TV, you said the tour was like a family."

"Yeah, like my family. Dysfunctional, full of misfits and jealous siblings."

"We stopped over in Vegas all the time," Rebecca said. "He gave me some chips, I played the slots. He never said anything about being in debt to the casinos."

Another confidential attorney-client conference on the beach.

"He was fifteen million in debt."

" Fifteen million? That's not possible."

"It's true. He threw two tournaments to pay the mob back. He was supposed to throw a third but he made a long putt."

"In Atlanta."

Scott nodded. "You ever see a lot of cash around the house?"

"Like a few thousand?"

"Like three million. Mob money."

"No. Never. The police searched the whole house-you don't think they took it?"

Scott watched a brown pelican swoop down and snatch a fish from the sea. He didn't know what to think or whom to believe. Perhaps a polygraph would help.

Retired FBI Special Agent Gus Grimes stood knee-deep in the surf wielding a long fishing pole. He lived in an isolated beach bungalow beyond a line of sand dunes on the next island over, or actually the adjacent peninsula. Scott and Rebecca had taken the car ferry from the East End of the Island across the Ship Channel and driven onto Bolivar Peninsula, where Ike had wiped the earth clean.

They had parked and knocked on the front door. When no one answered, they walked around back and found Gus surf fishing. He saw them and walked out of the water and across the sand to the house. Gus wore baggy shorts, an "I'd Rather be Fishing" T-shirt, beach shoes, and sunglasses. Reading glasses hung around his neck. Gus's gray hair was ragged and a bit long and stuck out from under a fishing cap. He smelled of the sea and looked more like a beach bum than a former FBI special agent.

"Sorry. Lost track of time."

Scott made the introductions then said, "Nice place. No nosy neighbors."

"Three thousand homes on the peninsula before Ike, only a dozen survived. Not mine. Rebuilt soon as I got my insurance money, so the fish didn't get cocky."

"No one else is rebuilding?"

"Oh, yeah. Most didn't have insurance, but the government's spending a couple hundred million to rebuild all the homes. No seawall out here, so we'll all get washed away in the next hurricane, but that's the government, giving away other people's money like Halloween candy."

Gus led them through the back door and into the bungalow. The decor was that of a fish-and-tackle shop.

"You know Hank Kowalski?" Scott said.

"Sure. Hank comes out here on weekends. We surf fish."

"Do all FBI agents retire to Galveston?"

"Only the smart ones."

Karen had briefed Gus on the phone about the case. Scott now pulled out a document and handed it to him. "Confidentiality agreement."

Gus nodded. "I understand."

He understood that Scott did not want a bad result released to the press or the D.A.'s office. Gus signed the document without reading it then handed it back to Scott.

"You work at home?" Scott asked.

"No need for an office. I do half a dozen polygraphs a month, just a little extra bait money. Just me and the fish now. My wife died three years ago, son lives in New York. Lawyer with a big firm. Hates it, but the money owns him."

"Beautiful view," Rebecca said.

She seemed completely calm and relaxed, unlike Scott. Gus noticed.

"Who's taking the polygraph, you or her?" He slapped Scott on the shoulder. "Lawyers always worry more than their clients." He turned to Rebecca. "Okay, sit down and I'll explain how this works."

He gestured her to a chair next to a table on which sat the polygraph machine.

"Just like a laptop," Gus said. "Those analog polygraphs you see on TV, the little needles flying over scrolling paper, they've been replaced by these digital versions."

He picked up a blood pressure cuff connected to the machine. He wrapped the cuff around Rebecca's left arm.

"Like at the doctor's office. Measures your pulse and blood pressure. And these are called pneumographs."

He wrapped rubber tubes around Rebecca's upper chest and stomach.

"They measure respiration. And these little gadgets measure how much your fingers sweat. Folks tend to sweat when they lie."

Gus attached little diodes to two of Rebecca's fingers.

"So what this machine does, it measures anxiety. We compare your physiological changes-pulse, blood pressure, respiration, sweating-against a baseline to see if you get anxious when answering certain questions. Anxiety is an indicator of deception. And that's all this drill can do-tell us whether a person is anxious. It's not really a lie detector. It can't tell us if you're lying, only if you're anxious. That's why the results aren't allowed as evidence in court. Okay?"