too much or too little, and he had left a lot to be revealed later. Things that would shock the jury, like cocaine and sex. And he set the jury up to expect Rebecca to testify.
'Mr. Fenney,' the judge said, looking not at him but at the cameras.
Scott did not move because her words did not register in his mind. His thoughts were of 'innocent until proven guilty.' The state bears the burden to prove the defendant guilty. The defendant does not have to prove herself innocent. That's the law. But every defendant bears that burden. That's the reality of a murder trial.
Americans don't believe that innocent people go to prison in America. That's something that happens in other countries, like Russia and China and Mexico. Maybe it's ignorance, maybe it's denial, or maybe it's fear-that it's better to imprison a few innocent people than risk guilty people going free and committing more crimes. But innocent people do go to prison in America. Unless they can prove their innocence.
'Mr. Fenney.'
Scott stood and walked over to the jury box. The television cameras sat on either side of the courtroom. Behind the cameras in the spectator section were reporters, print journalists from the major Texas newspapers and the wire services scribbling on tablets, and locals there for a macabre form of entertainment. Terri Rawlins sat in the front row behind the prosecution table; Melvyn Burke sat next to her. When their eyes met, Melvyn averted his gaze. Scott turned to the jurors.
'Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Scott Fenney. I represent the defendant, Rebecca Fenney. First, my face… I took a, uh, tumble on the beach. Second, Rebecca'-he would refer to her by her first name in order to distance her from 'defendant' status-'and I share the same last name because, as I'm sure you've read in the papers or heard on the TV, she is my ex-wife.
'I have great respect and personal affinity for Mr. Truitt, but he failed to mention a few other facts that the evidence will show, including that the murder weapon was part of a matched set of eight knives given to Trey Rawlins at a golf event more than a year before, that those eight knives had been in their kitchen ever since, and that Rebecca had used all of those knives, including the murder weapon, on numerous occasions for a variety of kitchen purposes.
'That Rebecca was covered in Mr. Rawlins' blood that night because she had been sleeping next to him in their bed when she woke to find him dead-how could she have killed him then slept in his blood? Who could do that? Who would?
'That Rebecca was at the crime scene when the police arrived because she called nine-one-one herself. Rebecca Fenney did not run from the scene of the crime. She summoned the police to the scene of the crime.
'That Trey Rawlins loved Rebecca, that he provided for her, that he gave her gifts of cash and jewelry and a Corvette, that he asked her to marry him the very night he was killed.
'That Rebecca had no motive to kill Trey Rawlins. She had a great life with Trey-first-class travel, five-star hotels and restaurants, spas and resorts, money, jewelry, clothes. Without Trey, she has nothing-no travel, no hotels and restaurants, no money, no home, no life insurance. Nothing except a red Corvette and jewelry.
'Why would she kill the man who gave her everything?
'She wouldn't. She didn't. Rebecca had no motive to kill Trey Rawlins. But the evidence will show that other people did have motives to kill Mr. Rawlins, that other people wanted him dead-and that some of those people had killed before.
'So don't assume the district attorney has this case figured out. He doesn't. I don't. But you must. At the end of this trial, you must decide if the prosecution proved Rebecca Fenney guilty of murder beyond a reasonable doubt. That is your legal duty. But that's not the reality, is it? Because in your mind at this very moment is a single question: If she didn't kill Trey Rawlins, then who did?
'We'll answer that question.'
Mark Gimenez
Accused
FORTY-TWO
The Assistant D.A. stood and called the first witness for the prosecution as if he were an actor on a stage. Perhaps he was. Perhaps they all were. In America, there was no bigger stage than a courtroom during a televised murder trial of a famous pro athlete, whether the victim was Trey Rawlins or the defendant was O.J. Simpson. It was the ultimate in reality TV.
Ronda Jensen, mid-fifties, a career county employee, was the 911 operator who took Rebecca's emergency call that night. She authenticated the call then the Assistant D.A. played the tape for the jury. Bobby would cross- examine the prosecution's witnesses. He stood and asked only one question of this witness.
'Ms. Jensen, who made that call to nine-one-one?'
'Rebecca Fenney.'
The first police officer on the scene that night testified next. Patrol Officer Art Crandall was only thirty and had never come closer to military service than his stint in his high school ROTC, but he wore his Galveston Island Police Department uniform with the same bearing as if he were the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff testifying before Congress.
'Officer Crandall,' the Assistant D.A. said, 'please tell the jury what you were doing at three-forty-eight on the morning of Friday, June fifth?'
'Three-forty-eight? Must've been eating a donut.'
The Assistant D.A. rolled his eyes. 'After that.'
'Oh. Dispatch put out an emergency call to the West End, on Treasure Isle Lane in Lafitte's Beach.'
'And did you answer that call?'
'Yes, sir, I did.'
'Please tell the jury what you did when you arrived at the address.'
'I pulled up out front of the residence-'
'At what time?'
'Three-fifty-seven.'
'Did you see any other cars or people out front?'
'No, but Officer Guerrero arrived right after me. We then proceeded along the east side of the residence down to the beach.'
'And why didn't you go to the front door?'
'Dispatch said to go around back, which sits right on the beach. We climbed the rear stairs to the back deck. The doors right there were open. I yelled 'Police!' and we entered the residence.'
'Officer Crandall, would you please look at the monitor next to the witness stand?'
The Assistant D.A. nodded to a staffer manning a laptop at the prosecution table. A color photo showing the front of the Rawlins residence appeared on the big screen above the witness stand.
'Officer Crandall, is this the residence you arrived at that night?'
'Yes, sir, it is.'
'Does this next photo show the east side of the residence?'
'Yes, sir, it does.'
'And these are the stairs to the back deck?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And the French doors?'
'Yes, sir.'
'All right. You entered through those doors. What did you find inside?'
'We made entry into a large, white bedroom. The lights were on. I observed the room and saw a woman holding a phone.'
'And was that woman Rebecca Fenney, the defendant?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Did you see anyone else?'
'No, sir, I did not-not anyone alive, anyway. Directly in front of me was the bed on which the victim was
