Scott whispered to Gus: 'Ask her about cocaine use.'
Scott walked down the desolate beach. Gus's house was the only one in sight. It was like being on a deserted island. A hot island. Heat waves shimmered above the sun-baked sand. Scott could feel the heat through the soles of his topsiders. Even the gulls didn't light on the dry sand; they stuck to the wet portion of the beach that the tide cooled with each pass. He walked alone and thought of his life-his past and his future.
Two years ago, he had had what he considered a perfect life: partnership at Ford Stevens. $750,000 a year. Highland Park mansion. Ferrari. Miss SMU for his wife. Boo.
Then, that life was suddenly gone.
Now, two years later, he could have his old life back. Ford Fenney. $1 million a year. The corner office on the sixty-second floor. The dining, athletic, and country club memberships. Life, health, and dental insurance. 401(k) plan. Mansion. Ferrari. Rebecca. Boo. Pajamae.
But did he want that life back? Could it ever be the same? Would it include Rebecca? Or would Boo visit her mother in the women's prison? The clock was ticking: nineteen days until trial, perhaps five more days until a verdict. Rebecca Fenney might be down to her last twenty-four days of freedom.
Scott decided to take another run at Melvyn Burke. He knew something. Something Terri Rawlins wanted hidden behind the attorney-client privilege. Scott pulled out his cell phone and dialed. When Melvyn answered, Scott said, 'Trey owed five hundred thousand dollars to Benito Estrada. You know who he is?'
It took a moment for Melvyn to answer. 'Yes.'
'And what he sells? And who he works for?'
'Yes. Why the debt? Trey made that much in a week.'
'Trey accused Benito of cheating him, refused to pay. You know what the consequences of not paying the cartel would be?'
'Yes. I know.'
'Trey also owed fifteen million to the mob.'
The line was silent for a moment. 'Who told you that?'
'Gabe Petrocelli. You know him, too?'
'I know of him.'
'He works for the mob.'
'I know.'
'Did you know about Trey's drug and gambling debts?'
'Does Rex know all this? The cartels, the mob?'
'He knows about the drug debt. I'm seeing him tomorrow about the mob debt.'
'Maybe he'll dismiss the charges.'
'Melvyn, if you know something, please tell me. Don't let an innocent person go to prison.'
'Attorney-client privilege, Scott.'
Scott ended the call when he saw Gus waving from the bungalow. He walked back up the beach. When he entered the bungalow, Gus said, 'Rebecca, why don't you take a walk now, let Scott and me talk?'
'Okay.'
She kicked off her sandals, and they watched her down to the surf.
'You get lonely out here, Gus?'
Gus smiled. 'With all these fish?' His smile soon faded. 'My work is done, Scott. I'll play out my life here on this sandbar.'
Scott had put off asking as long as he could. 'Well?'
'Inconclusive.'
'What does that mean? Was she lying?'
'We don't say 'lying,' Scott. We say 'truthful' or 'deceptive' or 'inconclusive.' Inconclusive means 'I don't know'.'
'Why not?'
'Because her physiological responses weren't significant.'
'So she was telling the truth?'
'Possibly. From her demeanor, probably. She exhibited no nervousness or anxiety at all, so I'd lean toward truthful.'
'Even about the cocaine?'
'Yep. Said she used it a few times with Trey, not recently.'
'But possibly she was telling the truth and possibly she was lying?'
Gus nodded. 'Which adds up to inconclusive. Which is why I took early retirement from the Bureau.'
'What do you mean?'
'After Hanssen-the agent who sold secrets to the Russians-and then nine-eleven, the FBI and CIA and NSA, they all started seeing spies and terrorists behind every government desk. So they instituted wide-scale polygraph testing. Hell, they'd test every person in America if they could. They did test everyone at the Bureau. Anyone failed, they were fired on the spot. I kept telling the directors, that's not the proper use of the polygraph. Just too many false-positives to fire folks for one failed test. They want to say these things are ninety-five percent reliable, but that's just not the deal. None of this stuff-not even DNA-is foolproof, but we want a pill to make us skinny and a test to put the right people in prison. But the Bureau's more worried about bad press than bad guys, so they said shut up and test. I was ruining too many good folks' careers, so I quit.'
'Yeah, but the D.A. won't quit this case on inconclusive.'
Gus shook his head. 'Nope.'
Scott headed to the door but stopped. 'You didn't ask me.'
'Ask you what?'
'Why I'm defending my ex-wife?'
'Oh. Well, working at the FBI you learn pretty quick not to ask too many questions.'
'That's comforting.'
Consuela de la Rosa-Garcia hummed a Mexican lullaby while she rocked little Maria. She was holding her nina under the umbrella on the back deck and watching the girls play on the beach below and Carlos and Louis trying to surf the waves. Hombres locos. But they made her laugh. She heard a car out front, and Senora Fenney soon appeared down below. She walked out to the girls.
Consuela had never liked Senora Fenney.
When the Fenneys had bought the mansion on Beverly Drive in Highland Park and she had become their maid, she knew that her life would be difficult under her new mistress. It had been. Then Immigration took Consuela away that terrible day, to Nuevo Laredo. But Senor Fenney had somehow rescued her and obtained her green card and brought her back to Highland Park, and when she returned, Senora Fenney was gone. The last two years without her had been good for Consuela. She was the only maid she knew in Highland Park with health insurance. Maria was not born with a Mexican midwife in East Dallas; she was delivered by a doctor in a hospital in North Dallas. Consuela liked her life now.
She hoped Senora Fenney would not return with them to Dallas.
THIRTY-FOUR
'You really gonna call all these witnesses?' the D.A. said from behind his desk.
'You gonna find your leak?'
The prosecution and defense had exchanged witness lists, as the law required. Scott gestured at the empty chair along the wall.
'Where's Tonto?'
The D.A. chuckled. 'I liked the Lone Ranger.' He pointed a thumb at the window. 'I put Ted on intake duty at the jail. Figure processing drunks over the Fourth of July weekend might give him some perspective. He went home to change, can't abide the thought of someone puking on his three-hundred-dollar shoes.'
The courthouse was quiet that Thursday, the day before the long holiday weekend. The D.A. scanned the
