the Galveston County Courts Building, gawkers crowded the sidewalk, and the general consensus among the locals was that the murder trial would provide a welcome boost to the Island economy. It wasn't booze, gambling, and prostitution like back in the Sin City days, but it'd do in a pinch.
When Scott had defended Pajamae's mother on a murder charge two years before, he had thought she was guilty-her fingerprints were on the murder weapon-only to learn during trial that she was in fact innocent. Now, defending Boo's mother on a murder charge, he thought she was innocent-even though her fingerprints were on the murder weapon. What if he learned during trial that she was in fact guilty?
He pulled Rebecca through the crowd and into the courthouse. She looked beautiful but frightened. He had spent Sunday recuperating; she had spent the day pacing the beach like a strung-out addict. She swore she was not-addicted to cocaine or guilty of murder. She was terrified of being sent to prison. She was now holding his hand so tightly it felt numb.
They cleared the metal detectors and rode an elevator to the fourth floor. At the west end of the corridor outside the courtroom, the cable network had set up a broadcast booth against the wall of windows, like the TV booth towering above the eighteenth green at a golf tournament. Renee Ramirez was stationed in the booth; she wore headphones and faced an array of monitors. She noticed Scott and gestured at his face and mouthed, 'Ouch.'
Annoying as hell.
The open area where the corridor dead-ended looked like a casting call: Pete and Billie Jean Puckett and Goose sat on a bench by themselves, an aging golf pro and the only two people he had left in the world… Tess McBride, Lacy Parker, and Riley Hager huddled in one corner chatting in hushed voices like sexy sorority sisters… Brett McBride, Donnie Parker, and Vic Hager had brought their putters and a few balls and were exchanging putting tips on the smooth carpet… Brad Dickey, Royce Ballard, and Nick Madden conducted business on cell phones and laptops… Benito Estrada and one of his thugs leaned against one wall… and Gabe Petrocelli and one of his goons leaned against the other. Gabe gave Scott a sympathetic shrug.
'Sorry, Scott. Orders from Vegas. They don't want me testifying. You okay?'
'I'm good.'
That was a lie. He felt awful. The swelling in his face had come down, but the rest of his body still hurt with every movement. Gabe's goons were more skilled at maiming a human body than linebackers. Louis took a step in their direction.
'No, Louis.'
The defense had subpoenaed them; the law required they wait outside the courtroom until called in to testify. Which did not please them. The others glared at Scott as he walked their gauntlet to the courtroom doors-except Tess McBride. She bounced over to him, frowned at his face, and said, 'When do I get to testify?'
' Get to testify? I thought you didn't want to?'
'That was before I found out it's on TV-all these cameras, everyone watching. It's like an audition.'
'An audition? Testifying at a murder trial?'
Rebecca stepped close and said, 'How could you, Tess? Cheat with Trey? We were friends-and you're married.'
'You cheated with Trey when you were married.'
'But he was with me. '
Tess gave her a lame shrug and went back to the other WAGs by the wall. Scott entered the courtroom followed by the defense team and the defendant. The girls had begged to come, but he had refused. There were some things they just didn't need to know at age eleven. He didn't allow them to see PG-13 movies; why would he allow them to see an X-rated trial? When the crime scene photos of Rebecca covered in blood would be shown on the big screen above the witness stand? When there would be testimony about alcohol and cocaine and sex on the beach? When Boo's mother might have a starring role in a sex video?
He had taken Pajamae to her mother's murder trial-he had to do everything he could for Shawanda-but he couldn't do that to Boo. And that trial had not been televised; this one would be. The girls didn't need to be seen on national TV. So they were at the beach house with Consuela and Maria and uniformed police officers out front and back-and under strict instructions not to watch the trial on cable.
Judge Morgan wanted a meeting of counsel in chambers before she swore in the jury. She looked at Scott's face and recoiled.
'My God. Are you okay, Scott?'
'Yeah. Thanks for asking.'
'Because I don't want to delay the trial-we'll lose our broadcast slot. Renee said the cable channel's booked up the next two months. Next week they've got a serial murder trial up in Chicago.' She turned to the D.A. 'Rex, what's this about sex tapes?'
'Not evidence, Shelby.'
'Renee said she asked you for copies and you refused. Why?'
'Because it's none of her goddamned business, that's why.'
'You know what those tapes would do for our ratings?'
'Shelby, I'm about to go out there and ask a jury to send a human being to prison for life, so frankly, I don't give a good goddamn about cable TV ratings.'
'She's filing a public information request with the AG's office in Austin.'
'She can file it where the sun don't shine, all I care.' He stood. 'I'm gonna try a goddamned murder case.'
'Jesus, Rex, every murder trial, you get really grouchy.' She stood. 'Does my hair look okay?'
Judge Morgan didn't sit at the bench; she posed.
When the jurors entered the courtroom and sat in the jury box, their eyes immediately turned to Rebecca Fenney. They would sit in judgment of her life-not just her actions that night, but her entire life. That wasn't the way it was supposed to work, but that's the way it did work. And they would be shocked by her life.
The Assistant D.A. read the indictment into the record, and Rebecca Fenney pleaded not guilty in open court. Galveston County Criminal District Attorney Rex Truitt slowly stood from his chair. He wore a seersucker suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, and black reading glasses. He looked like Hemingway himself stepping forward to read from one of his books, and if Ernest didn't have the D.A.'s voice, he should have.
He stepped over to the evidence table, picked up the murder weapon encased in plastic, walked to the jury box, and said, 'The evidence will show that when the police arrived at the crime scene at three-fifty-seven on the morning of Friday, June the fifth, they found Trey Rawlins dead, lying on his back in his bed, with this eight-inch butcher knife stuck in his chest, right here.'
He put the blade against his chest.
'The evidence will also show that the defendant's fingerprints-and only the defendant's fingerprints-were found on this knife. And that the defendant had not held the knife like this, as if to cut a steak, but like this, as if to stab.'
The D.A. held the knife with the blade pointing down.
'The evidence will further show that police found the defendant in the bedroom covered in Trey Rawlins' blood… that the defendant's bloody footprints and handprints and fingerprints were found on the bedroom floor, wall, and phone… that no third-party's bloody footprints or handprints or fingerprints were found in that bedroom or anywhere in that house… that the only plausible explanation is that the defendant, Rebecca Fenney, took this knife from a drawer in their kitchen, went into their bedroom where Trey Rawlins lay sleeping on their bed, and stabbed this knife into his chest, killing him. Murder is the taking of a human life without justification. There was no justification for what the defendant did to Trey Rawlins.'
The D.A. stared at the knife a long moment then placed it on the evidence table.
'Now, defense counsel will argue that the defendant had no motive to kill the victim, that she lost everything when he died. Which is true. So why did she kill Trey Rawlins? I don't know. I've been in this job for twenty-eight years now, trying criminal cases and trying to understand criminals: Why do they do what they do? Unfortunately, I am no closer to understanding my fellow human beings today than I was when I started this job. If you want to know why she killed her lover, she will have to tell you. I cannot. All I can do is prove that she did in fact kill him. And I will.'
The district attorney returned to the prosecution table. Rex Truitt had done this before. He hadn't promised
