"About eleven."
"And you woke at three-forty-five
A.M.
and found Mr. Rawlins dead?"
"Yes."
"But you heard nothing?"
"No."
"Ms. Fenney, did anyone else know that Trey proposed to you?"
"Ricardo, our waiter."
"Because you told him?"
"Yes."
"Did Trey tell anyone?"
"Not that I know of."
"So it's just your word that he proposed to you?"
"Why would I lie?"
"Maybe because you killed him."
"I didn't."
The Assistant D.A. picked up the murder weapon.
"Then why are your fingerprints on the murder weapon?"
"It's a kitchen knife. I must've used it."
"When?"
"Sometime. I don't know when. Maybe a year ago, like that state lab guy said."
"Mr. Haynes said you could have put your prints on this knife a year before, didn't he?"
"Yes, he did."
"Except there's two problems with that scenario, aren't there?"
"What problems?"
"First, after you used this knife to cut something, perhaps a steak, what did you do with it?"
"I don't understand."
"Well, did you cut a steak and then put the knife right back in the drawer?"
"No, I put it in the sink or the dishwasher."
"For Rosie Gonzales to clean, correct?"
"Yes."
"So your prints from a year before wouldn't still be on this knife, would they? They would have been washed off, wouldn't they?"
"I … I don't know."
"That's all right, the jury knows. And second, Mr. Haynes didn't know that Rosie Gonzales had cleaned the dishes that very day, did he?"
"I don't know."
"Ms. Fenney, you heard Rosie Gonzales's testimony, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"You heard her testify that when she left at noon on June the fourth the entire knife set was clean and in the kitchen drawer, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Which means, Ms. Fenney, you did not put your fingerprints on this knife a year before or a month before or a week before—you put your fingerprints on this knife the same day Trey Rawlins was murdered with this knife, isn't that correct?"
"I don't know."
"Sometime after Rosie Gonzales left at noon and before this knife was removed from Trey Rawlins' body, isn't that correct?"
"I don't know."
"But you were gone all day, correct?"
"Yes."
"You didn't return until six
P.M.
?"
"Yes."
"So you had to put your prints on this knife between six
P.M.
and three-fifty-seven
A.M.
when Officers Crandall and Guerrero entered your house and found this knife stuck in Mr. Rawlins' chest, isn't that correct?"
"I don't know … I guess …"
"You
guess?
Ms. Fenney, did you use this knife that night?"
"I … maybe … I must have."
"And what did you use this knife for?"
"I don't know. I swear."
"Oh, don't swear, Ms. Fenney. Just tell the truth."
"I'm trying."
"Telling the truth shouldn't be difficult."
Scott stood. "Objection. Badgering the witness."
The judge stared at Scott. She had apparently realized overnight that he had actually saved her judicial career. She exhaled and ruled on his objection.
"Sustained."
"Ms. Fenney, you returned to the house at six
P.M.
You and Mr. Rawlins then went out to eat at seven
P.M.
, correct?"
"Yes."
"So you didn't use this knife to cut a steak that night, did you?"
"No."
"Did you use this knife for any purpose between six
P.M.
and seven
P.M.
that night?"
"No. I don't think so."
"Okay. You and Mr. Rawlins returned home from Gaido's about ten, correct?"
"Yes."
"And went to bed about eleven?"
"Yes."
"Did you use this knife between ten
P.M.
and eleven
P.M.
on June the fourth?"
"I don't remember."
"You don't remember?"
"No."
"You don't remember if you used this knife to cut anything that night?"
"No."
"But we know you didn't use this knife to cut anything, Ms. Fenney, because your fingerprints are not on this knife in the way you would hold it to cut something, are they?"
"I don't know."
"You held this knife to stab, didn't you, Ms. Fenney?"
"No!"
"Like this."
The Assistant D.A. held the knife with the blade down, as if to stab. He stepped close to the witness.
"What did you stab with this knife, Ms. Fenney?"
"Nothing!"
"You stabbed something, Ms. Fenney. Between the hours of ten
P.M.
when you and Mr. Rawlins were last seen at Gaido's and three-fifty-seven
A.M.
when the police arrived at your house, you used this knife to stab something, didn't you, Ms. Fenney?"
"I don't know!"
She was crying now.
"You used this knife to stab Trey Rawlins, didn't you?"
"No!"
"You murdered Trey Rawlins, didn't you?"
"No!"
She turned to the jurors sitting just a few feet from her. "He gave me everything … now I have nothing. Why would I kill him? I loved him!"
"I'm sure you did."
The Assistant D.A. turned away and gave the jury a raised eyebrow—completely unethical courtroom conduct, but also very effective. He stepped over to the evidence table and replaced the murder weapon. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.
"Ms. Fenney, you were drunk that night, correct?"
She wiped her face. "Yes."
"And you were stoned on cocaine, correct?"
"Yes."
"So you really don't remember much from that night, do you?"
"No, I don't. But I didn't kill him."
"You used cocaine with Trey?"
"Yes."
"And on your own?"
"Yes."
"You know Benito Estrada?"
"Yes."
"You purchased cocaine from him?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"I don't remember."
"Does Saturday June thirteenth sound right?"
"I don't know."
"Well, we have you on tape visiting Benito's place of business on Market Street on that date. Did you purchase cocaine at that time?"
"Yes."
"Well, let's see, Ms. Fenney, you've testified that you have no assets except a red Corvette and some jewelry, is that correct?"
The train bore down on the car.
"Yes."
"Did you give Benito your Corvette in exchange for the cocaine?"
"No."
Closer now.
"Did you give him jewelry in exchange for the cocaine?"
"No."
"You couldn't have because in fact you didn't receive that jewelry from Mr. Rawlins' attorney until Monday June fifteenth, correct?"
"Yes."
"And you have testified that you had zero dollars, correct?"
"Yes."
"So you did not pay Benito with cash?"
"No."
"And I'm betting he didn't take a check or a credit card?"
"No."
"Well, Ms. Fenney, exactly what did you pay Benito with?"
Rebecca's eyes dropped. She stared down and said nothing, as if hoping the Assistant D.A. would go away. He didn't.
"Ms. Fenney, isn't it a fact that you are in possession of three million dollars in cash the mob paid Trey Rawlins for throwing two golf tournaments?"
"No."
"And isn't it a fact that you used some of that money to pay Benito Estrada for cocaine?"
"No."
"Well then, Ms. Fenney, would you please tell the jury how you paid Benito Estrada for the cocaine? What did you give Benito Estrada in exchange for cocaine?"
The train now collided with the car—but it wasn't the collision Scott or the Assistant D.A. or anyone else in the courtroom had expected.
Rebecca Fenney looked up and said, "I traded sex."
FIFTY-ONE
Scott knew now that it could never be the same. She could not be his wife or Boo's mother. He had wanted her back every day since she had left two years before. Every day he had woken wanting her. Every day he had run to forget her. Every day he had gone to bed missing her. Now he didn't want her back.
He didn't want her sleeping in a prison cot, but he didn't want her sleeping in his bed.
She had cheated on him, she had lied to him, she had used cocaine while living with him that summer. And with their daughter. Had she killed Trey Rawlins, too? Had she lied about everything? All the reasonable doubt they had created in the jurors' minds had been washed away like the West End homes during Ike with those three words: "I traded sex." With those three words, Rebecca had sentenced herself to prison—unless Scott could explain to the jury why her prints were on the murder weapon and aligned as if holding the knife to stab something. Or someone.
"A. Scott?"
"Yes, honey?"
"You lied to me about that, didn't you?"
"About what?"
"Mother using drugs."
"You've been watching the trial on cable."
"I had to."
"Yes. I lied to you."
"Why?"
"Because I didn't think you needed to know that about your mother."
"I wish I didn't. There's a lot I wish I didn't know about Mother."
"Me, too."
"I've decided."
"What?"
"About mother and us."
"What have you decided?"
"I don't want her to come back to us."
The sun doesn't set in July in Texas until after nine. They had eaten dinner in town. Boo wanted to talk, so Scott took her for a walk along the seawall while the others went back to the house. Except Louis. He came with them.
"I'll always love Mother, but I don't think she's right for us anymore. I like our family the way it is now."
Scott put his arm around her little shoulder and pulled her close. They walked on a while then she said, "Mother's testimony today—that wasn't good, was it?"
"No. It wasn't good."
"Do you think the jury will send her to prison?"
"Yes, I think they will."
"Do they have air-conditioning in prison?"
"No."
"But it's hot in Texas."
"Yes, it is."
"She'll sweat a lot."
"Yes, she will."
"I don't want that."
"Me neither."
"I'll worry about her."
"Boo, you're only eleven. You've got to stop worrying about everyone else—your mother, my health …"
"A. Scott, I'll always worry about you."
He pulled her closer. The peacefulness of the seawall seemed so incongruous with the turmoil inside Scott's mind. His client—his ex-wife—the mother of his child—would be sentenced to life in prison.
"I've decided something else, too," Boo said.
"What's that?"
"I don't want cable."
They walked on past joggers and bikers and skateboarders and, across the boulevard, the San Luis Resort Hotel that sat atop two concrete coastal artillery bunkers built during World War Two and armed with 12-inch guns to blow any German U-boats attempting to land on Galveston Beach out of the water. Scott felt as if the defense had been blown out of the water that day—by the defendant. They walked until they came to a fruit stand where an old Latino man was selling fresh watermelons, cantaloupes, apples, and oranges. He had a friendly face. "I have cold melons, on ice," the old man said. "They are very fresh, just up from the valley."
Texas' Rio Grande Valley produced the state's vegetables and melons. They stopped, and Scott pointed at a big watermelon.
"Three big slices."
The old man leaned down behind his makeshift counter and lifted a huge green watermelon. He placed it on the white wax paper that covered the counter. He turned then came back with a large knife. He gripped the knife with the blade pointing downward, raised it about two feet above the belly of the melon, then stabbed the defenseless watermelon in its gut all the way to the hilt of the knife. He then dragged the knife down lengthwise, slicing the melon. He removed the knife, flipped the melon around, and repeated the procedure down the other side. The melon fell open into equal halves, exposing the red pulp … just like the watermelon they had seen in the refrigerator at Rebecca's house on their tour of the crime scene.