'Why is it worse to be beautiful?'
'Because a beautiful girl is supposed to be a sex object, not a person. She's supposed to sell her beauty to the highest bidder-that's a beautiful woman's career path. That's how my mother raised me, to be a thing of beauty, to be admired and purchased by a man. And men expect to buy you, just like they buy a sports car. A beautiful woman is a possession a man shows off to other men, and when that possession gets a little dinged up, he trades it in for a new model. You saw the women out there on tour-you see any ugly women with those rich golfers?'
'No. So you knew about Trey and Tess?'
'No. But I'm not stupid. On tour, there are always women making themselves available to the players. Christ, Tess McBride was a Hooters girl.'
'She placed second in the Miss Hooters pageant.'
'I placed first in the Miss SMU pageant, and there's not a Hooters girl in the world who can compete with an SMU coed.'
She was right.
'I'm going to talk to her. Tess.'
'When?'
'Tomorrow, at the tournament. After the grand jury hearing.'
'Why?'
'Because I think someone on the pro golf tour killed Trey.'
SEVENTEEN
Four fail-safes exist to protect the accused in the American criminal justice system: the grand jury, the district attorney, the judge, and the trial jury.
In Texas, politics quickly overcomes the district attorney and the judge-they're lawyers, they're ambitious, and they're elected. And emotion and prejudice overcome trial juries before they are even seated. By the first day of trial, the publicity surrounding the case-especially a high-profile murder case-has overwhelmed the jurors' impartiality. Judgments have already been made, if not rendered. Every lawyer knows that there is no such thing as an impartial jury. Everyone is partial. Which leaves the grand jury as an innocent person's only hope for justice.
In Texas, one shouldn't hold out much hope.
Grand juries in Texas are selected pursuant to the 'key man' system: the presiding judge picks three grand jury commissioners-that is, three friends-who in turn pick twelve grand jurors-their friends-who then sit as the grand jury. A few judges have recognized the bias inherent in the key man system and have opted for random selection of grand jurors from voter registration records-but only a few, because to buck the system is to ensure that you will never move up to higher judicial office.
Judge Shelby Morgan wanted to move up.
The Grand Jury Room was located on the first floor of the Galveston County Courts Building adjacent to the district attorney's office. Which was convenient. The D.A. didn't have to walk far to get an indictment.
Scott sat on the front row and observed the twelve friends-the Galveston County Grand Jury-gathered that Friday morning. Non-lawyers would expect a grand jury to be just that: grand. Special. Noble. It wasn't. It was painfully normal. The jurors were all white men, which did not present a constitutional issue since Rebecca Fenney was white. Only one juror wore a tie; the others wore shirts and slacks or jeans. One owned an Italian restaurant, another a furniture store, a third an insurance agency. One was a dentist, another the plant manager at a refinery. All were BOI-born on the Island. It seemed more like a meeting of the local rotary club than a grand jury about to decide whether an American citizen should stand trial for murder.
They did not appear mean-spirited. In fact, they appeared like the men you might meet on the street, men who smiled and said 'hidi' and held doors open for ladies, men who readily stopped and fixed a stranded woman's flat tire, men who attended church. They were just regular folks who cared about their community.
And like regular folks, they feared crime.
They saw on television and read in newspapers about brutal, stupid, senseless violent crimes committed every day in America, and they were afraid. They couldn't keep criminals off the Island, so they did the only thing they knew to keep their Island safe: they indicted every person the district attorney brought before them. And why shouldn't they? They had voted for the D.A. They trusted him. If he said someone should stand trial, who were they to question his judgment? They weren't lawyers. He was. They didn't know the law. He did. And he had promised to keep them safe from crime.
Consequently, no lawyer in America holds more power than a county prosecutor.
At exactly nine o'clock, Galveston County Assistant Criminal District Attorney Theodore Newman, his face aglow with a prosecutor's power, stood and told the grand jurors that Rebecca Fenney had murdered Trey Rawlins by stabbing an eight-inch butcher knife from her own kitchen into his chest while he slept in their bed. He called one witness, Detective Chuck Wilson, who testified that Rebecca Fenney's fingerprints were found on the murder weapon.
None of the grand jurors asked a single question.
By law, no one-not even the district attorney-is allowed inside the room while the grand jurors deliberate and vote to either 'true bill'-indict-or 'no bill'-decline to indict-the accused. So at nine-fifteen that morning, Scott was sitting outside on a bench in the corridor. The fact that a grand jury was voting at that very moment to indict his ex-wife for murder-and knowing he was powerless to stop it-made his face flush hot. He would have to tell the mother of his child that she would stand trial for murder and that if convicted, she could be sentenced to life in prison.
But not to death.
The death penalty may be assessed only for 'capital murders': serial murders; murders of children, cops, firefighters, judges, and prison guards; murders committed in the course of a rape, kidnapping, robbery, or arson; and murders for hire. Simply shooting, stabbing, or beating another human being to death with a baseball bat will get you five years to life in prison.
If the district attorney had his way, Rebecca Fenney would spend the rest of her life inside those bleak brick buildings behind the tall fence with concertina wire. Boo would visit her mother in prison-unless her father found the killer. He was her only hope. Their only hope.
Scott's face still felt hot when the world around him suddenly turned a bright searing white. He thought the girls' fear had come true-he really was having a heart attack or perhaps a stroke-until he heard a female voice: 'Mr. Fenney, do you think the grand jury will indict your wife?'
Scott shielded his eyes from the light and saw a woman holding a microphone in his face. Renee Ramirez.
'Ex-wife.'
Scott stood and walked down the hall to the men's room.
By nine-thirty, the grand jury had voted to indict Rebecca Fenney for murder.
Indictment starts the clock ticking in the American criminal justice system. Both the U.S. and Texas Constitutions guarantee the right to a speedy trial. Under federal law, the defendant must be tried within seventy days of indictment; the general rule under Texas law is one hundred eighty days, unless the defendant agrees to a continuance. Most do. Rebecca Fenney would not. She could not afford to live in doubt for more than six months, and her lawyer could not afford to live in Galveston for more than sixty days.
The clock was now ticking on Rebecca Fenney's freedom.
Renee Ramirez had retreated to the entrance lobby where she was flirting with the deputies manning the metal detector, and Scott was again sitting on the bench outside the Grand Jury Room when the D.A. sat down next to him. Rex Truitt's face was not aglow with power; it was weary with the responsibility of putting American citizens in prison for the last twenty-eight years.
'You really gonna do it? Defend her?'
Scott nodded. 'I have to.'
