Mark Gimenez - Accused

Her blue eyes were at half-mast. She was only two years older than Scott but she looked ten years younger. She appeared lean and fit in her business suit with the skirt hiked up mid-thigh. Every pore on her body oozed sensuality. She caught Scott looking at her and winked at him. First Renee, now the judge.

"Aren't there any eligible men on the Island?"

"None I want sweating over me." She smiled. "That was you on Renee's tape, wasn't it?"

"Tell her to stop those 'Murder on the Beach' reports."

"She wants a network job."

"She may get more than she bargained for."

"How so?"

"At the trial."

"Oh. That should be fun, lots of TV exposure."

"Those are bright lights."

"Scott, I've been waiting all my life for my moment in the lights."

She leaned into him and put her hand on his thigh. Her scent had a higher alcohol content than the bourbon she was drinking. Scott breathed her in.

"So, Scott, you considering my offer?"

It was an attractive offer, like Ford Fenney. But both offers had downsides.

"Judge, we're in the middle of a murder trial."

"I promise not to talk about the case or Trey. In fact, I promise not to talk at all… unless you want me to." She winked. "You need some excitement in your life, Scott, I can tell. You need some fun. Man fun." She patted his leg, and he felt the heat rise. "You think about it while I go to the little girl's room."

She moved the four empty bourbon bottles to Scott's tray table, secured her tray to the seat in front, and pushed herself up then stumbled down the aisle holding her glass aloft. Scott couldn't help but look after her; the skirt was snug around her bottom. It was a very nice bottom. Judge Shelby Morgan was an incredibly sexy woman. And no doubt sex with her would be fun. Man fun.

He was like those other lawyers at Ford Stevens now-his only fun was father fun. Watching Pajamae play basketball, going on field trips with her and Boo, having lunch with them once a week at school, playing on the beach this summer with them-that was good fun. Fatherly fun. But sometimes a man needed the other kind of fun, the kind of fun that involved a sexy woman like Shelby Morgan… or Rebecca Fenney… or Tess McBride… or-

Scott sat up straight in his seat.

Judge Morgan lived three houses down from Trey Rawlins. She had just referred to him as "Trey." Not as "Mr. Rawlins." Not as "the victim." But as "Trey." As if she had known him. Personally.

Scott's eyes dropped to the empty bourbon bottles.

Two days later, only three days before trial, Scott escorted his ex-wife into the courthouse for jury selection. They passed through the metal detectors and the deputies eyeing Rebecca then turned left and walked down the corridor to the Jury Assembly Room.

"Rebecca, unless Benito or Gabe or Pete confesses on the stand, the case is going to turn on your credibility."

"So I'll testify?"

"You may have to. So we need a character witness, someone who can vouch for your honesty. Tess had an affair with Trey, and her husband's on the suspect list, so that rules her out. Who are your other friends?"

"I don't have any. It's hard to be friends with women who are competing for your man." She sighed. "Must be why my friends have always been men."

The Jury Assembly Room was a stately space with wainscoting and wood and walls covered with portraits of old judges. It looked like a large courtroom, except the speaker's podium faced the spectator section instead of the witness stand and the spectator section wasn't filled with pews but with chairs-and the chairs were filled with residents of Galveston County who had been called for jury duty. Which is to say, they were not a happy crew. Scott stopped at the prosecution table and handed a baggie containing the miniature bourbon bottles to the D.A.

"More suspects?"

"Just one."

The D.A. shrugged. "I'll get Hank to run 'em."

Scott stepped over to the defense table where Bobby and Karen were prepping for voir dire.

"Guys, we want baby boomers, upper income, college-educated jurors who won't judge Rebecca guilty just because she left me for Trey."

"Scotty," Bobby said, "this ain't Highland Park. Our jurors are going to be high school educated, working class folks who look at Rebecca as a cheating bitch who left her husband and daughter for a rich golf pro." He glanced at Rebecca. "No offense."

"Bobby, that's not admissible."

"It's already been admitted-in the press. By Renee. Main thing is, everyone in Texas knows the Mexican cartels, so if they're old enough to have seen The Godfather, we'll be okay."

"That's a movie."

"Same as the History Channel for most people."

The judge entered the courtroom from a side door and sat behind the bench. Scott's eyes met hers; she raised her eyebrows, as if to say, My offer is still on the table… or I will be.

The bailiff stood. "Ladies and gentlemen, please turn off your cell phones and all electronic devices. No phone calls are permitted during jury selection. No texting either."

The lawyers turned their chairs around to face the prospective jurors. Scott sat between the two tables, next to the D.A., who leaned in and said, "What's your strategy when picking a jury?"

"Prayer."

The D.A. chuckled. "Mine is to make sure all the jurors are over thirty."

"Why?"

"Because young people today, they got no sense of morality."

Eight hours later, they had seated a jury of seven men and five women; eight whites, three Latinos, and one black; two had been educated past high school; all were above the age of thirty; one had been reading Wicca amp; Witchcraft for Dummies. Rebecca seemed shell-shocked, like the girls the day they had learned the mechanics of sex in health class: Is that really how it works? The only greater shock in an American citizen’s life is learning how the criminal justice system really works.

"My God, Scott. My life is in their hands?"

"That's why innocent defendants take plea bargains."

She clutched his arm. "Scott, please don't let them send me to prison."

Rebecca Fenney might have less than a week of freedom left. She knew it.

"I'm innocent."

"Rebecca, I know you're innocent. But I don't know how I'm going to prove it to that jury."

She gestured at the D.A. "I thought he had to prove that I'm guilty?"

"That's the great American myth."

She slumped in her chair. "I'm going to die in prison."

"No, you're not."

The D.A. gestured to Scott. He stood and walked over.

"You figure out why her prints were on the knife?" the D.A. said.

"No."

The D.A. squinted at nothing for a moment then sighed.

"See you Monday."

"What would you be doing if you didn't have this job?" Carlos said.

They were again sitting on their surfboards, even farther offshore this time, their legs dangling in the murky warm water that was the Gulf of Mexico, gently swaying with each swell. It was nice.

"Time. I'd be doing time. Career path for an uneducated black man in the projects is prison."

"You think Miss Fenney's going to prison?"

"Hard to say. But I'm going to college."

"Is that why you read all those books?"

"I read books so I'm not ignorant all my life."

"You're smart."

"I'm street smart, but not book smart."

"You know how to survive in the projects, you could write a book about that. Shit, Louis, they put you on one of those Survivor-Jungle shows, you'd kick their asses from here to Sunday. Projects make the jungle look like Disney World."

"I'd like to go there one day."

"The jungle?"

"Disney World. After college, maybe."

"I thought about going to college once, I was watching a football game-all those hot college girls bouncing for the cameras. Hey, Louis, we could go to college together, live in one of those coed dorms. We could be roommates."