The announcer: 'Trey Rawlins was coming off a big win at the California Challenge the week before and was even odds to win the Open in New York next week. His murder shocked the sports world and his fellow tour players.'
'I'm stunned,' a tanned golfer in a golf visor said. 'Trey was like a brother to me.'
'I can't believe he's dead,' another golfer said. 'I'm really gonna miss him.'
'I wish I had his swing,' a third golfer said.
The Trey Rawlins golf swing now filled the screen in slow-motion. It was a long, fluid, powerful swing-a thing of beauty. They were both things of beauty, Trey and his swing. Even if you didn't follow golf, you knew of Trey Rawlins. His face was everywhere; he endorsed golf equipment, golf apparel, sports drinks, and chocolate milk. He was clean-cut and handsome, young and vital; his hair was blond, his face tan, and his eyes a brilliant blue. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist.
'He had it all,' the announcer said. 'The swing, the putting stroke, the movie-star looks. Could he have been the next Tiger? Who knows? But in less than two years on tour, he had won four times, finished second seven times, and earned nine million dollars. His future was as bright as his smile. Trey Rawlins was the all-American boy.'
Video played of Trey signing autographs for kids, teaching kids at junior golf clinics, visiting sick kids at a hospital, and announcing the establishment of the Trey Rawlins Foundation for Kids while surrounded by kids. He looked like Robert Redford in that scene from The Natural.
The announcer: 'Trey cared deeply about giving back to the community.'
That was followed by more testimonials, first from Trey's sports agent: 'He wasn't just my client. He was my best friend.'
And from his equipment sponsor: 'We were honored to have Trey endorse our golf products, which he honestly felt were the best on the market. I loved the guy.'
And finally from a tour official: 'The fans have lost a great golfer and an even greater young man, and we have lost a brother, a member of the tour family.'
The screen lingered on the image of Trey Rawlins with the sick kids.
Scott had never paid much attention to Trey when he had worked at the Highland Park Country Club: Trey Rawlins had been one of the young assistant pros who came and went with the seasons; A. Scott Fenney had been a member in good standing at the most exclusive country club in Dallas. They had not occupied the same social stratum. But then Rebecca Fenney had fled Dallas with the assistant pro who soon became a star on the pro golf tour; and A. Scott Fenney had soon lost his membership, his mansion, and his Ferrari-as well as his wife. But he had never blamed Trey. He had taken Scott's wife, but he couldn't take someone who wasn't there for the taking. So while Trey's death had brought Scott's wife back to him, it had brought him no solace.
When the broadcast resumed, the announcer said, 'Trey is survived by his twin sister, Terri Rawlins. Funeral services will be held Thursday in Galveston, where we now go live to Renee Ramirez for an update on the criminal investigation.'
The picture cut to a beautiful young Latina reporter standing in front of a low-slung building with “Galveston County Jail” over the entrance doors.
'Trey Rawlins, the fifth-ranked professional golfer in the world, was found brutally murdered in the bedroom of his multimillion-dollar Galveston beach house early Friday morning. He was only twenty-eight years old.'
A video showed workers wearing white jumpsuits with 'Galveston County Medical Examiner' printed on the back removing a body from a white beach house.
Back to the reporter: 'Galveston Police Detective Chuck Wilson gave a statement to the media Friday morning outside the murder scene.'
A clip from the interview played. The detective was middle-aged and tall and stood before a dozen microphones clumped together on a podium under a palm tree with the surf breaking behind him. He wore sunglasses and looked like Dirty Harry.
'At approximately three-fifty this morning police were called to the residence of Trey Rawlins, the professional golfer. Mr. Rawlins was found in his bed, deceased. He had been stabbed. Police found Rebecca Fenney, age thirty-five, in the residence with his blood on her body and clothing. We questioned Ms. Fenney, and at approximately eight this morning, we placed Ms. Fenney under arrest for the murder of Trey Rawlins. She is currently being held at the county jail.'
An image of Rebecca and Trey in happier times appeared on the screen. The reporter said, 'Rebecca Fenney was Trey Rawlins' longtime companion on tour. She now stands accused of his murder. She's being held without bail pending her indictment by the grand jury, but she has denied killing Trey. I've learned that her ex-husband, a Dallas lawyer, has notified police that he is representing her. He is expected to arrive in town today, so I've been waiting here hoping to get a word with him. Back to you, Hal.'
Hal, the announcer: 'Her ex-husband is defending her? For murdering the man she ran off with? Can he do that? Isn't that some kind of conflict of interest? Or at least a conflicted interest?' Hal shook his head. 'Well, that proves he's a better man than me.'
Back to the reporter: 'No, Hal, that proves he's a better lawyer than you. For enough money, a lawyer will represent anyone-even his wife who left him for the man she's now accused of murdering.'
Scott sighed and said, 'Ex-wife.'
SEVEN
The Galveston County Jail stands at 54th and Ball Street, one block off Broadway, the main drag on the Island. The sand-colored, 1,250-bed structure is framed by palm trees and gives the impression of a retirement community. For some of the inmates, it might be.
Scott steered the Jetta into the parking lot and saw that Renee Ramirez and her cameraman remained camped out on the front sidewalk. But she was expecting a Dallas lawyer-a guy wearing a suit and driving a luxury automobile, not a guy wearing shorts and sneakers and driving a Volkswagen-so Scott walked right past her without attracting more than a coy smile and a whiff of her sweet perfume. He entered the lobby and went over to the bail window but turned at the sound of chains dragging across concrete: a line of tattooed men wearing white GALVESTON COUNTY INMATE jumpsuits and shackles shuffled past and through a secure door under the close supervision of two guards packing pump shotguns, but not before one inmate said something in Spanish to a female guard and grabbed his crotch, which earned him a rifle butt rammed into his ribs.
'Help you?'
Scott turned back to the window. A chubby young man who looked more like a mall cop than a certified Texas peace officer addressed him. He wore a khaki Galveston County Sheriff's Department uniform and sat at a desk on the other side of the open window. Behind him, more uniformed officers sat at desks scattered about the room.
'I'm Scott Fenney from Dallas.' He handed his business card to the officer, who looked at it and frowned as if it were written in French. 'I'm representing Rebecca Fenney. I'm here to pick her up.'
The officer looked up from the card. 'Pick her up? What, like a prom date?' He shook his head. 'Sorry, buddy, you don't just pick up someone accused of murder. She's staying right there in that cell till the grand jury indicts her.'
'Oh. Okay. Then please give me a copy of the magistrate's written finding of probable cause.'
'Do what?'
'My client was arrested at eight Friday morning without a warrant and charged with a felony, to-wit, murder under section nineteen of the Texas Penal Code. Section seventeen of the Code of Criminal Procedure requires that she be released within seventy-two hours after her arrest unless a magistrate determines that probable cause exists to believe she committed the crime. That time period expired at eight this morning. So you must either show me the magistrate's determination of probable cause or release my client.'
The officer stared slack-jawed at Scott.
'To- what? ' He held up a finger as if gauging the wind. 'Uhh… hold on a sec.' He swiveled around in his chair and called out. 'Sarge-we got a lawyer up here quoting the Penis Code. He's from Dallas. '
