'She'd be safer in jail. Hell, you'd be safer with her in jail.'
'You can't set bail to punish the defendant, force her to stay incarcerated through the trial.'
'I can't go any lower than that-Renee would have a field day.'
'That's grounds for recusal, Judge. Karen, prepare a motion.'
The judge's face flashed red again, and this time she did have a Serena moment.
'Don't you fucking dare!'
'Judge, I don't live here. It won't affect my law career, having a judge pissed off at me. My only concern is that the defendant get a fair trial. If you can't give her that because of your concern about the press coverage… or for other personal reasons… then I'll file that motion. And I will take that to the federal court.'
'Mr. Fenney, I can hold you in contempt!' She pointed a manicured finger at Scott. 'You're not a legend in my courtroom! You're just another goddamned lawyer!'
'Judge, my client-'
'Your wife.'
'My client is entitled to a fair trial and I'm gonna make damn sure she gets one. If you can't give her a fair trial, then recuse yourself and let another judge do it.'
Judge Shelby Morgan glared at Scott.
'She'll get a fair trial, Mr. Fenney.'
When they exited the judge's chambers and walked back into the courtroom, the D.A. whistled and said, 'Damn, Scott, you really know how to make a good first impression.'
'I try. I figured we might as well clear the air now, before we go to trial.'
'Oh, I think you cleared the air all right. But what's the personal reason?'
'The judge and I are both up for a federal judgeship in Dallas.'
'Buford's bench?'
Scott nodded. 'He's dying.'
'Heard he was sick.'
'Senator Armstrong said he owes Judge Morgan.'
'I expect he does.' He didn't elaborate. 'So Shelby might be leaving the Island, huh?' The D.A. smiled. 'Hell, not all bad news then.'
They grabbed their briefcases and the bag of jewelry then opened the courtroom doors and came face to face with a dozen cameras shining bright lights and reporters shoving microphones and shouting questions. Renee Ramirez was the leader of this pack.
'Mr. Fenney, why are you defending your ex-wife when she's charged with murdering the man she left you for?'
Scott maintained his lawyerly expression. 'Because she's innocent.'
They pushed forward down the corridor toward the elevators.
'Why won't she take a polygraph?'
'Because polygraphs are not reliable indicators of guilt or innocence, which is why they're not admissible in any court of law in America.'
'Why were her fingerprints on the murder weapon?'
'Are your fingerprints on your kitchen knives?'
Scott saw Renee's obvious frustration with his answers and figured she'd give up. She didn't. She had one more question.
'Mr. Fenney-do you still love your wife?'
Scott knew his expression had let him down, and so did Renee. She had a 'gotcha' grin on her face.
'Ex-wife.'
Carlos had jogged ahead and gotten an elevator; he held it open for the others. Once they were aboard, he let the doors close, shutting out the cameras. The D.A. turned to Scott.
'You okay? That last one was a cheap shot. But that's Renee.'
'I'm a big boy.'
Bobby held up the official Houston Classic tournament tote bag.
'Rex, we've got some evidence for you.'
'And I've got some evidence for you.'
TWENTY-FOUR
The D.A. sat behind his desk under the sailfish, and Ted Newman sat against the wall. Hank Kowalski had joined them and stood next to Newman. The defense team faced the D.A. from across his desk. Karen opened her laptop like a gunner setting up field artillery. Bobby opened the tote bag and removed the baggies containing the fingerprint evidence Scott had collected at the golf tournament. He placed them on the desk.
'Ah, more fingerprints,' the D.A. said. 'Well, Hank ran Goose's prints. Didn't match the unidentified prints at the crime scene. Who are these from?'
'Suspects.'
Hank stepped over and examined the baggies one by one; each was identified with initials. 'Glass marked 'TM'… soda can marked 'LP'… plastic container marked 'RH'… Houston Classic golf programs marked 'BM' and 'DP' and 'VH'… Budweiser beer bottle marked 'NM'… five Corona beer bottles marked 'CW'. I can guess where these came from.'
The D.A. turned to Scott. 'You don't want to tell me who they belong to?'
'Not yet.'
The D.A. nodded. 'Run 'em, Hank.' To Scott: 'That it?'
'For now.'
'Okay. My turn.'
The D.A. pushed a thick stack of papers across the desk. Scott handed them to Bobby.
'Item one: log and copies of all emails to and from Trey over the last six months, including to his website. My tech man got them off his laptop.'
Bobby scanned the log and said, 'None to or from the other women.'
The D.A.: 'What other women?'
'We've learned that Trey was promiscuous,' Scott said.
'Promiscuous? Last time I checked the Penal Code, that's not illegal in Texas, thank God, or we'd never clear the docket.' The DA chuckled. 'Hell, Scott, if I looked like him and was rich like him, I'd damn sure be promiscuous.'
'With married women?'
The D.A. shrugged. 'Maybe not with our gun laws. What married women?'
'Other golfers' wives. On tour.'
'You know this for a fact?'
'They admitted it.'
'You're gonna put Trey on trial, aren't you?'
'No, Rex, I'm going to find his killer.'
'She's over at the jail. Look, Scott, Trey was young and rich and famous-didn't you have some fun when you were young?'
'Not with married women.'
The Assistant D.A. snorted. 'Well, at least you know Trey wasn't picking on you, taking your wife.'
An awkward silence captured the room. The D.A. grimaced, a common expression when the Assistant D.A. was present. Scott waited for the D.A. to reprimand his assistant, but instead the D.A. bent over, opened a lower desk drawer, and came back up with a box of dog biscuits. He stuck his hand inside the box and pulled out a little brown biscuit. He flipped it over to his assistant.
'Down, boy.'
The others choked back laughter, but the Assistant D.A.'s face flushed a bright red. 'Rex, are you trying to
