Consequently, no lawyer in America holds more power than a county prosecutor.
At exactly nine o'clock, Galveston County Assistant Criminal District Attorney Theodore Newman, his face aglow with a prosecutor's power, stood and told the grand jurors that Rebecca Fenney had murdered Trey Rawlins by stabbing an eight-inch butcher knife from her own kitchen into his chest while he slept in their bed. He called one witness, Detective Chuck Wilson, who testified that Rebecca Fenney's fingerprints were found on the murder weapon.
None of the grand jurors asked a single question.
By law, no one-not even the district attorney-is allowed inside the room while the grand jurors deliberate and vote to either "true bill"-indict-or "no bill"-decline to indict-the accused. So at nine-fifteen that morning, Scott was sitting outside on a bench in the corridor. The fact that a grand jury was voting at that very moment to indict his ex-wife for murder-and knowing he was powerless to stop it-made his face flush hot. He would have to tell the mother of his child that she would stand trial for murder and that if convicted, she could be sentenced to life in prison.
But not to death.
The death penalty may be assessed only for "capital murders": serial murders; murders of children, cops, firefighters, judges, and prison guards; murders committed in the course of a rape, kidnapping, robbery, or arson; and murders for hire. Simply shooting, stabbing, or beating another human being to death with a baseball bat will get you five years to life in prison.
If the district attorney had his way, Rebecca Fenney would spend the rest of her life inside those bleak brick buildings behind the tall fence with concertina wire. Boo would visit her mother in prison-unless her father found the killer. He was her only hope. Their only hope.
Scott's face still felt hot when the world around him suddenly turned a bright searing white. He thought the girls' fear had come true-he really was having a heart attack or perhaps a stroke-until he heard a female voice: "Mr. Fenney, do you think the grand jury will indict your wife?"
Scott shielded his eyes from the light and saw a woman holding a microphone in his face. Renee Ramirez.
"Ex-wife."
Scott stood and walked down the hall to the men's room.
By nine-thirty, the grand jury had voted to indict Rebecca Fenney for murder.
Indictment starts the clock ticking in the American criminal justice system. Both the U.S. and Texas Constitutions guarantee the right to a speedy trial. Under federal law, the defendant must be tried within seventy days of indictment; the general rule under Texas law is one hundred eighty days, unless the defendant agrees to a continuance. Most do. Rebecca Fenney would not. She could not afford to live in doubt for more than six months, and her lawyer could not afford to live in Galveston for more than sixty days.
The clock was now ticking on Rebecca Fenney's freedom.
Renee Ramirez had retreated to the entrance lobby where she was flirting with the deputies manning the metal detector, and Scott was again sitting on the bench outside the Grand Jury Room when the D.A. sat down next to him. Rex Truitt's face was not aglow with power; it was weary with the responsibility of putting American citizens in prison for the last twenty-eight years.
"You really gonna do it? Defend her?"
Scott nodded. "I have to."
"I suppose you do. Well, bring her in Monday, nine A.M. I'll hold the warrant till then. We'll book her and arraign her."
"Thanks, Rex. That wouldn't happen in Dallas."
"This ain't Dallas." The D.A. loosened his tie. "Might want to leave out the back way. Renee's out front. She's a goddamn pit bull with makeup." The D.A. leaned back. "Twenty years, Scott."
"What?"
"Plea bargain. Twenty years for her guilty plea. Life expectancy of a white female in the U.S. is seventy-eight. She'll be eligible for parole in ten. We'll agree not to oppose it. She'll be forty-five, have thirty-three good years left. But if we go to trial, Scott, we're asking for life without parole. She did it, and the jury will convict her."
"She didn't do it, Rex."
"You find any evidence of that?"
"I found someone with a motive to murder Trey."
"Who?"
"His ex-caddie. Clyde Dalton, goes by 'Goose.' "
"I've seen him on TV. What's his story?"
"Trey fired him down in Mexico a few months ago-"
"I remember something about that."
"Then refused to pay Goose the hundred thousand he owed him."
"A hundred grand? That's what caddies make?"
"Ten percent for a win."
"Shit, I should've been a caddie."
"Goose wasn't happy about it. He was caddying in Florida last Thursday for another player, but he flew back to Austin that same day, got in at five, which means-"
"He could've driven down here in time to kill Trey."
Scott nodded.
"Except his prints aren't on the murder weapon."
Scott reached into his briefcase and removed the baggie holding Goose's beer can.
"His prints are on this can. I can get a private lab to run them, but you could have the state lab run them, see if they match the unidentified prints at the crime scene. See if he was in Trey's house that day."
"You trust me not to hide the results?"
Scott looked the D.A. in the eye. "I do."
The D.A. took the baggie. "Okay, I'll run 'em. What else?"
"We learned some things about Trey."
"Such as?"
"Porn and Viagra."
"You're gonna put him on trial, aren't you?"
"No. I'm going to find his killer."
"Just look across the dinner table tonight." He ran his hand through his white hair. "Scott, I take Viagra. Hell, every guy over forty out at the club swears by that blue pill. It's the elixir of youth, and it's legal. So is porn. Stay in a five-star hotel and you can watch it for free. Not my cup of tea, but what a man does is his business, as long as he doesn't do it with children or in public."
"But porn and Viagra-that doesn't exactly fit his all-American chocolate-milk public image, does it? Maybe there's another side to Trey Rawlins."
"Scott, some pro athletes are exactly what they seem to be. Some don't have a dark side."
"Rex, you ever heard of denial?"
"Have you?"
He was an old lawyer in an old office in an old building in the old part of downtown.
"Trey never executed a will."
Melvyn Burke was the older man in the suit at the funeral. And he wore a suit that hot and humid Friday morning. He had practiced law on the Island for forty-two years. Wills and estates mostly, some contracts and real estate. He was representing the Estate of Trey Rawlins, and he appeared to be carrying the weight of the world on his slumped shoulders. Thirty minutes after leaving the courthouse, Scott sat on the other side of Melvyn Burke's desk.
"So under the intestacy laws," Melvyn said, "his entire estate goes to his only surviving relative, Terri Rawlins, his sister. Rebecca's entitled to nothing."
"You represented Trey on all his legal matters?"
Melvyn nodded. "Except his endorsement contracts. His agent handled those. I handled his personal matters-the house, cars, boat. Rex let you take Rebecca's clothes from the house?"
"And makeup. Can she have her jewelry? They were gifts from Trey."
"I'll talk to Terri." He exhaled heavily. "She's really got the red ass for Rebecca."
"Why?"
"Because she thinks Rebecca killed her twin brother."
"What do you think?"
"I think you should hire another lawyer to represent your wife."
"Melvyn, I couldn't afford to hire myself."