'You have my word.' He leaned back and crossed his thick arms. 'Scott, my job is to see justice done, and I intend to do exactly that. I think that means convicting your wife. But if it means setting her free and convicting someone else, so be it. If you find exculpatory evidence-or if I do-I'll dismiss the charges and apologize to her. Until then, I'm gonna prosecute your wife for the murder of Trey Rawlins.'
'Ex-wife.'
The D.A. grunted. 'The grand jury convenes Friday at nine A.M. You find anything that explains why her prints are on the murder weapon, I'll present it to the jury. Fair enough?'
Scott nodded. 'Okay if I attend the hearing?'
The Assistant D.A. again jumped out of his chair. 'Absolutely not! The grand jury is our domain!'
The D.A. sighed heavily and again turned to his assistant. 'Shh.' Then he turned back to Scott and scratched his beard. 'Not exactly a normal procedure, defense lawyer sitting in on the grand jury hearing. But seeing as how you're a guest on our fair island-and a Texas legend-why not? I'll have to ask the grand jury, but they usually do what I ask.'
He winked. Grand juries always do what district attorneys ask, whether allowing guests at the hearing or handing up indictments.
'Legend? You mean football?'
'That, too.' The D.A. smiled. 'Been seventeen years and I still can't believe you ran for a hundred ninety- three yards against us.'
'We still lost.'
'You should've won.'
'I hear that a lot these days.'
'But I'm talking about that black prostitute's case, Senator McCall's son. Scott, you made me proud to be a lawyer that day.'
'The prosecution lost.'
'Justice won. An innocent person didn't go to prison. Always thought they should've made a movie about that case, get that McConaughey boy to star.'
'But he doesn't look anything like me,' Bobby said.
The D.A. chuckled. To Scott, he said: 'How's she doing, your prostitute?'
'She died two months after the verdict. Heroin overdose.'
'Damn. Sorry to hear that. What happened to her kid? Cute little gal, showed her on TV walking into the courthouse with you.'
'I adopted her.'
That amused the Assistant D.A. 'You adopted a black kid? What, you trying to be a saint or something?'
Scott thought of Pajamae's teeth and shook his head. 'Just a father.'
'Ted,' the D.A. said, 'every time you open your mouth, you embarrass yourself. And me. So make out like that fish on the wall and shut the fuck up.' The D.A. exhaled and gathered himself. Then he talked to himself. 'Calm down, Rex, this is what they call a 'teachable moment'.'
He removed his reading glasses and swiveled in his chair to face his assistant.
'See, Ted, two summers back while you were trying to pass the bar exam for the third time, Mr. Fenney was defending a poor black woman accused of murdering the son of a U.S. senator, the most powerful man in Congress and the leading presidential candidate. Now most lawyers would've folded under the pressure, taken a dive to save their career. But he didn't. He defended her against the federal government and proved her innocent-and sacrificed his career and wife in the process. So you shouldn't be smirking at him, Ted, 'cause that makes you look stupid and it makes me look stupid 'cause I hired you. You should be learning from him… what it means to be a lawyer.'
He swiveled back to Scott.
'Young people today, they got no sense of respect. Don't know if I can teach Ted respect in just two years, but I'm damn sure gonna try.'
Scott snuck a glance at Ted. The D.A.'s reprimand had had no visible effect on his assistant; it was clearly not the first nor would it be the last. Theodore Newman was not yet thirty but he was already convinced of his place in the world, just as A. Scott Fenney had once been. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Bobby smacking his gum.
'You're smacking again, Bobby.'
Bobby looked up. 'Oh. Sorry.' To the others: 'Trying to quit cigarettes.'
'Try cigars,' the D.A. said.
He pulled a cigar from his pocket and tossed it to Bobby.
'Cuban, but don't tell the FBI.'
'What's your proof, Rex?' Scott said.
'The guy I buy them from is from Cuba, he gets 'em from-'
'That Rebecca killed Trey.'
'Oh. Proof is, your wife was found in the bedroom with the victim, she was covered in his blood, and her fingerprints were on the murder weapon which was still conveniently stuck in his chest.'
'That's all?'
'That's usually enough.'
The D.A. removed a set of keys from a desk drawer and tossed them to his assistant, who got up and scurried out of sight like a cockroach under a dresser.
'Motive?' Scott said.
'I've pretty much ruled out suicide.'
'Rex, you've got to prove motive, means, and opportunity.'
'Hell, I got two out of three.' The D.A. smiled. 'But this kind of murder is usually committed because of love or hate or money.'
'She lost everything when he died.'
'Life insurance?'
'None. No joint bank accounts, and there's no will. Everything goes to his sister.'
'You talk to Melvyn?'
'He sent a letter to Rebecca, at the jail.'
The D.A. nodded. 'Melvyn's prompt like that. Maybe they had a fight, your wife and Trey.'
'Any evidence of a struggle?'
The D.A. shook his head. 'Maybe there was another woman.'
'He asked her to marry him… that night.'
'So she said.'
'She told you?'
'She gave a statement.'
'I told her not to talk to the cops.'
'She gave it before you called. Voluntarily. It's in the book.'
'Did she confess?'
'Nope.'
'She cooperated?'
'Yep.'
'Do killers cooperate?'
'Only the dumb ones.'
'She called nine-one-one. That seem unusual, for a killer to call the cops?'
'Somewhat.'
'Anything of value missing?'
'Not that we know of.'
'Did the cops give her a chance to check?'
'Nope.'
'So motive could've been robbery?'
'Except for her prints on the knife. Butcher. Eight-inch blade.'
