Mark Gimenez - Accused

"No. The glove would prevent that."

"Would I obliterate Ms. Fenney's prints that are on the knife?"

"Not necessarily."

"Okay. So, Mr. Haynes, your testimony is in no way stating or implying to this jury that because only the defendant's fingerprints are on that knife that she is therefore the only person who could have stabbed the victim with that knife?"

"No, sir, I am not saying that."

"Mr. Haynes, would scrubbing a stainless steel countertop with Clorox and soap and Pine-Sol remove fingerprints?"

"Most definitely."

"Your Honor," Karen said. "Defense requests a recess."

The judge looked from Bobby to Karen, who had a funny expression on her face.

"Ms. Douglas, your co-counsel is conducting cross-examination. For what reason do you request a recess?"

"My water broke."

An eight-pound-two-ounce boy was born to Robert Herrin and Karen Douglas-Herrin at 7:37 P.M. at the UTMB hospital on Galveston Island, one of 2,500 babies born there in the first seven months of the year. UTMB was the charity hospital serving Galveston County.

"Scott Carlos Louis Herrin," Bobby said.

He stuck a big cigar in Scott's open mouth.

"Wow, Bobby, I'm honored."

"We're gonna call him Bud."

"Oh."

"Just kidding. You guys are like our brothers. What better names?"

"You're a father now." Scott hugged his best friend. "Start saving money for college."

Aligned along the glass window like visitors at the penguin exhibit at Moody Gardens were Scott and Bobby, Louis and Carlos, and Boo and Pajamae. The girls had their faces and hands plastered to the glass, oohing and aahing at the newborns.

"I don't like looking at them through the glass," Boo said. "I want to touch them."

Rebecca stood along the opposite wall. Scott glanced at her, and she motioned him over. He went to her; she lowered her voice.

"Scott, if they send me to prison, don't bring Boo to visit. I don't want her to see me though a glass window like that. I don't want her to remember me that way."

The second day of trial began with Detective Chuck Wilson giving his best Clint Eastwood imitation for the cameras. Scott could picture him pointing a gun at a kid trespassing on his grass and growling through clenched teeth, "Get off my lawn." He was fifty years old, he had a flat-top haircut, he wore a suit for his court appearance, and he had already retained a literary agent, a fact Scott had learned from Sarge. Wilson was an experienced homicide detective. He had worked the grimy Galveston murders for twenty-two years; now he had finally caught a glitzy tabloid murder. He was determined to make the most of the opportunity. He would present the prosecution's theory of the crime. District Attorney Rex Truitt questioned his star witness.

"Detective Wilson, what time did you arrive at the crime scene?"

"Approximately four-thirty A.M. on Friday, June fifth."

"And how did you enter the house?"

"Through the front door."

"Who was present when you arrived?"

"Two patrol officers, the criminologist, and the defendant."

"And where were they?"

"In the bedroom. The crime scene."

"And what did you see when you entered the bedroom?"

"I observed the victim lying on the bed with a knife in his chest

… the bed soaked in blood… bloody footprints on the floor leading to the French doors… blood stains on the white curtains and on the wall around the light switch… blood on the phone… and blood on the defendant's white nightgown and body."

It was time for the crime scene photos.

"Detective Wilson, would you please look at your computer screen, and I direct the jury to the screen above the witness."

Scott observed the jury when the first photo was displayed on the video screen on the wall. He expected a noticeable reaction from the jurors-gasps, recoiling in horror, averted eyes, something-but he got nothing. They acted as if a color blow-up of a bloody crime scene was nothing out of the ordinary. And then he realized it wasn't. They viewed similarly graphic scenes every night on television. It was just like watching a cop show.

"Detective, does this photo accurately represent the bedroom as you observed it?"

"Yes, it does. This is a view of the bedroom from the door on the north side. The French doors you see are to the south. Through those doors is the outside deck. On the east side of the room is the bed. The victim is lying on the bed."

"That is the way you found the victim, with the knife still in him?"

"Yes, it is."

"And would you identify this photo?"

The next photo was shown on the screen, a close-up of the deceased. Still no reaction from the jurors. Did they even understand that this was real? That a human being had died?

"This is a shot of the bed and the victim. He was naked and bled out profusely. The bed is covered in his blood except where the defendant had been lying, as the blood flowed over and around her body."

"And this photo."

The screen now displayed a photo of Rebecca from that night. She was covered in blood.

"That is the defendant as she was found that night wearing a short white nightgown and an undergarment. Blood is on her nightgown and her hands and arms and legs and face. Her hair was matted with blood."

"Is this the woman you saw that night?"

"Yes, it is."

"And is that woman in this courtroom?"

"Yes, she is. She's the defendant."

"Rebecca Fenney?"

"Yes, sir."

The D.A. gave the jury time to fully absorb the image. They did. Scott had instructed Rebecca to keep her head up and to look straight ahead without expression. She did.

The D.A. led Detective Wilson through a dozen more crime scene photos then asked, "Detective, did you ask the defendant what happened that night?"

"Yes, sir, I did. She said she woke up with a chill, went to shut the doors but stepped out onto the deck, realized she was wet, returned inside and turned the lights on, whereupon she saw the victim lying in blood on the bed with the knife in him."

"Did the defendant say who killed the victim?"

"No, sir, she did not."

"Did you ask her if she killed him?"

"Yes, sir, I did. She denied killing him."

"Did you subsequently investigate this homicide?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"And did you find any evidence that a third party, that is, a person other than the defendant or the victim, had entered that bedroom that night?"

"No, sir."

"And the only prints on the murder weapon were the defendant's?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did that evidence lead you to do?"

"Arrest the defendant and refer the case to your office with a recommendation that the defendant be charged with the murder of Trey Rawlins."

"Thank you, Detective."

The judge called for a short recess. The D.A. came over to the defense table.

"Who are these people? Those jurors didn't even blink an eye at the photos." He shook his head in apparent disbelief. "I need to retire."

Karen Douglas sat propped up in her hospital bed nursing her new baby boy and watching the murder trial on the TV and listening to Renee Ramirez's narration. She had her laptop up and running.

After the recess. Bobby cross-examined Detective Wilson.

"Detective, when did you arrest Ms. Fenney?"

"Friday morning, about eight."

"At the time of her arrest, did you have the results of the fingerprint evidence on the murder weapon?"

"No."

"Then what evidence did you have establishing probable cause to arrest her for the murder of Trey Rawlins?"

"She was present at the scene and she was covered in his blood."

"How did you know it was his blood?"

"No one else was bleeding."

"So that's all the evidence you had?"

"That was enough. Besides, we got the prints back Monday, it became a mute point."