Accused by Mark Gimenez Read Free Book Online Page A

floor, and four bedrooms that shared two baths were on the top floor. Karen and Consuela checked out the kitchen, Carlos the refrigerator, and Bobby the television. He pointed the remote at the TV like a gunman holding up a convenience store and commenced channel-surfing.
    "CNN, CMT, TNT, MTV, HBO … We must have a hundred cable channels."
    The girls' wish had come true, at least for the summer.
    "Consuela and I'll go get groceries," Karen said. "After Maria and I change our diapers."
    Bobby had not turned from the television. "CNBC, MSNBC, Hallmark, Cartoon Channel, History Channel, Food Channel … Hey, pick up some beer, okay?"
    "But not that light beer," Carlos said. "Man beer."
    Karen laughed. "Man beer? Is that on the label? You want man beer, Carlos, you come with us. You can drive."
    "Yeah, okay. Mr. Herrin, we get Telemundo? "
    "I'm not there yet. Bravo, Disney, Discovery, SciFi … Yep, we got Telemundo ."
    "Oh, good. I won't miss Doña Bárbara ."
    "Carlos, do you drink man beer while watching soap operas?"
    "No. Just baseball and Dancing with the Stars . That Julianne girl, she is hot."
    Scott felt as if he were starring in a reality show: Survivor-Galveston Island. A lawyer defends his ex-wife accused of murdering the star pro golfer she left him for. Who in Hollywood could dream that up? Who would dare? And the case would surely make the TV and tabloids. Scott Fenney might well end up the butt of jokes on Letterman— The Top 10 Reasons a Lawyer Would Defend His Ex-Wife —or at the annual state bar convention's gossip sessions. But if he didn't represent her, Rebecca Fenney would surely end up a prison inmate. He would blame himself, and one day, Boo would also blame him. He could not allow that day to come.
    "Man," Bobby said, "we get all the sports channels—FSN, ESPN, Golf—"
    Scott was standing at the open glass doors and staring out at a solitary seagull struggling against the wind when he realized the room behind him had fallen silent. He turned back. Everyone now stood frozen in place and focused on the TV. On the screen was the image of Trey Rawlins, shirtless and sweating—the man who had had sex with Scott's wife while she was still his wife—and who was now dead. He held up a glass of chocolate milk and in a smooth Texas drawl said, "Golfers are athletes too, even if you do ride in an electric cart. So after your round, you need a recovery drink—and the best recovery drink is all-natural chocolate milk, just like your mama used to give you after school." He gulped down the milk in one continuous drink and emerged with a brown upper lip and a big smile. "Got chocolate milk? Then get some."
    The screen cut to the announcer: "That was Trey's final commercial."
    Behind the announcer was a view of a green golf course; a byline read "Houston Classic." The pro golf tour was in Houston that week.
    The announcer: "Trey Rawlins was coming off a big win at the California Challenge the week before and was even odds to win the Open in New York next week. His murder shocked the sports world and his fellow tour players."
    "I'm stunned," a tanned golfer in a golf visor said. "Trey was like a brother to me."
    "I can't believe he's dead," another golfer said. "I'm really gonna miss him."
    "I wish I had his swing," a third golfer said.
    The Trey Rawlins golf swing now filled the screen in slow-motion. It was a long, fluid, powerful swing—a thing of beauty. They were both things of beauty, Trey and his swing. Even if you didn't follow golf, you knew of Trey Rawlins. His face was everywhere; he endorsed golf equipment, golf apparel, sports drinks, and chocolate milk. He was clean-cut and handsome, young and vital; his hair was blond, his face tan, and his eyes a brilliant blue. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist.
    "He had it all," the announcer said. "The swing, the putting stroke, the movie-star looks. Could he have been the next Tiger? Who knows? But in less than two years on tour, he had won four times,