'How often did you make deliveries?'
'Weekly.'
'When?'
Benito shrugged. 'Whenever.'
'During the day?'
'Yes.'
'And how did he pay you?'
'When I returned, the money would be waiting for me.'
'In the dumb waiter?'
'In the Hummer.'
'So you had no problems with Trey?'
'I did not say that.'
'What was the problem?'
'Trey owed me five hundred thousand dollars.'
'That's a lot of cocaine.'
'It is very high quality. He wanted only the best. And I assumed he shared with your wife.'
'So why didn't he pay? He was rich.'
'He did not inform me when he went on tour, so I made my weekly deliveries. He would be gone two, three, sometimes four weeks at a time. I would put each week's delivery in the dumb waiter, with the prior deliveries. He would collect the deliveries when he returned, and he always paid me in full. This past April, he went on tour again-I know, because I saw him on TV, he missed a very short putt and lost-but this time the dumb waiter was empty every week. And there was no money in the Hummer. So I assumed he had someone collect it for him, send it to him on tour.'
Benito exhaled heavily.
'I trusted Trey. Like a brother. So one day he called me, said he had been out of town for six weeks, said he needed a delivery. I said he must first pay what he owed, five hundred thousand. He said he did not receive the deliveries. I explained how I had made the deliveries, how the dumb waiter was empty each week…'
Benito shook his head; he seemed genuinely upset.
'He accused me of cheating him.'
'Did you?'
'No. I made the deliveries.'
'So what happened to the cocaine?'
'I do not know. But he should have stopped delivery while he was gone, like you do with your newspaper. Risk of loss passes to the buyer upon delivery. That is the law.'
'What, you were going to sue him?'
'We do not file lawsuits.'
'You kill.'
'I don't.'
'The Muertos do. Did they know Trey owed you?'
Benito nodded. 'I am a distributor. They handle collections.'
'Benito, why are you telling me all this?'
He stroked his goatee and sighed. 'Because I am afraid that I failed my brother. The last few months, Trey was not the same person I knew. At first, I thought it must be the cocaine, he was using more and more. But now I think not. I think there was more going on.'
'What?'
'I do not know. But he seemed very stressed. And afraid. He bought guns.'
'Maybe to protect himself from the Muertos.'
'Maybe. Maybe someone else. Scott, I do not want your wife to go to prison for a crime she did not commit.'
'You think she's innocent?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'You are defending her-why do you think she is innocent?' Benito sat back. 'A black hooker accused of murdering a senator's son and now your ex-wife accused of murdering a pro golfer-why do you take on such causes? For the money?'
'What money?'
'For the fame?'
'I don't want fame.'
'Then why do you do it?'
Scott sighed. 'I'm not sure.'
'And do you think you will be able to prove that she is innocent? Your wife?'
'She's innocent until proven guilty.'
'Scott, I am Latino. I know the reality of the law.'
'You spoke to Trey on the phone the night he was killed?'
'Yes.'
'Did you talk about his debt?'
'Yes. I was trying to save his life.'
'How?'
'To get him to pay what he owed, so the cartel did not send the Muertos after him. He was my friend, Scott. I did not want to see him harmed.'
'Did they send in the Muertos? '
'Perhaps. But I do not think so.'
'Why not?'
'Because she is still alive. Your wife.'
TWENTY-SIX
'God, that jail is awful.'
Thirty minutes after Scott had bailed Rebecca out, she was still trembling.
'At least I don't have to wear that ankle bracelet.'
'Don't jump bail, Rebecca, or I'll lose the house.'
Scott had pledged his house to secure her bond and release from custody.
They had driven from the jail to the beach and were now walking along the seawall. Joggers ran past, kids rolled by on bikes, and parents pushed strollers with young children aboard. The Island street scene was nice, and it was decidedly not Dallas. There were no Neiman Marcus mothers, no Armani dads, no Jacadi Paris girls, and no Hugo Boss boys. There were tank tops and cargo shorts and neon flip-flops, beach bums and surfers, and snow cone and cupcake trailers. Galveston was a Wal-Mart town, the poor man's Riviera. But not for long, if the senator had his way.
'Scott, you know how you said prisons are full of innocent people?'
He nodded.
'If I'm convicted, what happens?'
'I'll appeal, try to get the conviction overturned.'
'How long does that take?'
'Two or three years.'
'Do I get to live out here? While you appeal?'
'No. You go to prison.'
'But what if they realize I'm innocent? What happens then?'
