"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 Renée. 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 & 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."
"One summer is enough."
Carlos turned his head real quick like. "Is that a shark?"
Louis jumped and Carlos laughed.
"Just kidding, big man. I read in the paper that you got a lot better chance of drowning than getting eaten by a shark."
"That supposed to make me feel better?"
"You think there are sharks out there?" Bobby said.
He shook his head then turned back to Scott and Karen. They were working trial strategy on the back deck that afternoon.
"Scotty, the D.A.'s got no motive, no witnesses, no nothing—except her prints on the murder weapon. We explain that, they lose."
"He said if we can explain why her prints are on the knife before Monday, he'll drop the charges."
"You ask her?"
Scott nodded. "She doesn't remember holding the knife that way."
"You don't stab a steak."
"The alcohol and cocaine, she can't remember much about that night."
"Not good. Well, here's how I figure this is gonna play out. Rex will put on a very perfunctory case. The 911 operator, the cops first on the scene, the detectives, criminologists, M.E., the lab tech to testify to her prints, and his expert. That's it. State rests. Then he'll wait to cross-examine Rebecca—see if we put her on the stand."
"Then we call everyone who had a motive to kill Trey Rawlins and see if anyone breaks on the stand. Not the best trial strategy."
"Only strategy we've got. And it worked before."
"So it did."
"Subpoenas were served," Karen said. "I got all fourteen returns of service."
She tapped on her laptop then turned it so Bobby and Scott could see the screen, too. She had drawn a flow chart of the suspects and their motives and alibis.
"Looks like the organizational chart of a Fortune 500 company," Scott said.
"More than a few folks wanted Trey Rawlins dead," Bobby said.
"Let's go back through everyone with a motive," Scott said. "Make sure we didn't miss anything."
"First couple, Tess and Brett McBride," Karen said. "Neither of their prints matches the unidentified sets at the crime scene, and they were confirmed at the Florida tournament at the time Trey was killed. Brett played Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, made the cut, and played on the weekend. He didn't leave Florida until Sunday night."
"And they're still married, so he likely didn't know about Tess and Trey. Next."
"Lacy Parker, our favorite porn star, and Donnie Parker, a moron."
"Maybe he loves her for her mind," Bobby said.
"Only if her mind's located between her legs." Karen returned to her laptop. "Their prints don't match, and Donnie was confirmed in San Diego that Thursday, saw a doctor for his rotator cuff."
"Also still married. Next."
"Riley and Vic Hager. Prints don't match. Missed the cut in Florida, flew home to Wisconsin Friday. Confirmed. Oh, Riley hates Wisconsin."
"Still married. Next."
"Brad Dickey, Golf-a-zon-dot-com. Trey's sponsor. Great motive—if Trey died, they could terminate his endorsement contract and save ten million dollars. And they did just that. But he was at the Florida tournament all week, confirmed."
"They could've hired a contract killer," Bobby said.
"A corporate marketing guy hires an assassin to off their marquee athlete?" Scott said. "Where would he find one? In the yellow pages? Brad's just a guy trying to sell some golf balls. Next."
"Royce Ballard, tour VP. They didn't want Trey to hurt the tour's image, true, but killing him?"
"Royce is just a lawyer. Next."
"The construction workers."
"No way a bunch of stoned roofers get in and out clean," Bobby said. "No prints, no DNA, nothing taken."
Scott nodded. "They just wanted his cocaine. Next."
"Now the interesting suspects. First, Clyde 'Goose' Dalton, the caddie. A live one, no doubt about it. Trey fired and humiliated him then refused to pay him the hundred thousand he was owed. Good motive. And he had the opportunity. He flew from Florida to Austin that Thursday afternoon, arrived at five. Four hours to drive here, he could've been here at the time of death."
"But his prints don't match those at the house, and Goose doesn't strike me as the type to sneak into Trey's house at night and stab him while he slept. He would've woke him up first, so Trey'd know it was him. Next."
"Okay, the big three: the cartel, the mob, and the father. First up, Benito Estrada. Trey owed him five hundred thousand. He knew the layout of Trey's house because he had been there before. And he had access to professional killers, the
Muertos
. French doors were open, no problem for ex-commandos to enter the house, go to the kitchen, grab the knife, and stab Trey. And they wouldn't have left prints."
"But they wouldn't have left her alive either," Bobby said. "They don't bother framing people for their murders."
"No, they don't," Scott said. "I don't think Benito killed Trey or ordered it, but the cartel might have. They're definitely prime suspects."
"But other than grilling Benito, what can we do?"
Scott shook his head. "Nothing."
"Next up, the mob. Big-time motive, millions in gambling debts then he wins that tournament he was supposed to lose, cost them twenty million. Doesn't seem like they'd let that slide. And they're professionals, too."
"They wanted to kill him, no question about it. The question is, did someone beat them to it, like Gabe said?"
"Someone like Pete Puckett?"
"Exactly like Pete Puckett."
"Motive, means, and opportunity. Confirmed presence at the crime scene that day. Billie Jean, sex … all the ingredients for murder are there."
"And he's a hunter, means he's killed living things and he knows how to handle a knife. You can't be faint of heart to field dress a full-grown deer. It's bloody. Karen, read your notes, what those construction workers saw that day."
She tapped on her laptop then read: "The blonde girl arrived about one in a black Mustang, went inside the house. About five, a yellow cab arrived, and the big man got out, went inside. That's probably when Pete put his prints on the kitchen counter, but that's not when Trey was murdered. The construction workers saw the big man and the blonde girl leave ten or fifteen minutes later. So Pete and Billie Jean left the house seven or eight hours before time of death. They would've been back in Austin when Trey was murdered."
"If they drove back to Austin."
Scott pulled out his cell phone and called the D.A.'s office; he asked for Hank Kowalski.
"Hank, Scott Fenney. Where would a guy like Trey put a girl up on the Island?"
"Galvez."
"Would you do me a favor?"
"Another one?"
"Call the Galvez, see if Pete Puckett stayed there the night of June fourth. They'll tell you."
"I'll call you right back."
He did.
"One room, one night. A suite."
"Thanks." Scott ended the call. To Bobby and Karen: "Pete could've driven home to Austin that evening. Instead, they stayed overnight. Why? Maybe to finish something he'd started. Maybe he came back that night and killed Trey."
"But would a father really kill a man just for having sex with his seventeen-year-old daughter?" Bobby said. "Rape, maybe, but consensual sex? She's not a kid, and at seventeen, she's legal."
"True, but Pete's pretty protective of her, and he's got a violent temper."
"Fit of rage, I could see that, if he had killed Trey that afternoon when he caught them together. But coming back eight hours later, after he's calmed down?" Bobby shook his head. "I like the cartel or the mob. They're professional killers. Pete's a professional golfer."
"I agree," Karen said.
"That's it, then," Scott said.
"Okay," Bobby said, "let me see if I've got our trial strategy straight. We're going to call the golfer who just won the U.S. Open and try to get him to confess to murdering Trey Rawlins because he was screwing his seventeen-year-old daughter. If that doesn't work, we're going to call the Island's biggest drug dealer and accuse him and his Mexican cartel employer of killing Trey. And if that doesn't work, we're going to call the local bookie and go after the mob. Is that about it?"
"That's about it."
"Sounds good to me."
"Except for one thing," Karen said.