Isn't that some kind of conflict of interest? Or at least a conflicted interest?" Hal shook his head. "Well, that proves he's a better man than me."
Back to the reporter: "No, Hal, that proves he's a better lawyer than you. For enough money, a lawyer will represent anyone—even his wife who left him for the man she's now accused of murdering."
Scott sighed and said, "Ex-wife."
SEVEN
The Galveston County Jail stands at 54th and Ball Street, one block off Broadway, the main drag on the Island. The sand-colored, 1,250-bed structure is framed by palm trees and gives the impression of a retirement community. For some of the inmates, it might be.
Scott steered the Jetta into the parking lot and saw that Renée Ramirez and her cameraman remained camped out on the front sidewalk. But she was expecting a Dallas lawyer—a guy wearing a suit and driving a luxury automobile, not a guy wearing shorts and sneakers and driving a Volkswagen—so Scott walked right past her without attracting more than a coy smile and a whiff of her sweet perfume. He entered the lobby and went over to the bail window but turned at the sound of chains dragging across concrete: a line of tattooed men wearing white GALVESTON COUNTY INMATE jumpsuits and shackles shuffled past and through a secure door under the close supervision of two guards packing pump shotguns, but not before one inmate said something in Spanish to a female guard and grabbed his crotch, which earned him a rifle butt rammed into his ribs.
"Help you?"
Scott turned back to the window. A chubby young man who looked more like a mall cop than a certified Texas peace officer addressed him. He wore a khaki Galveston County Sheriff's Department uniform and sat at a desk on the other side of the open window. Behind him, more uniformed officers sat at desks scattered about the room.
"I'm Scott Fenney from Dallas." He handed his business card to the officer, who looked at it and frowned as if it were written in French. "I'm representing Rebecca Fenney. I'm here to pick her up."
The officer looked up from the card. "Pick her up? What, like a prom date?" He shook his head. "Sorry, buddy, you don't just pick up someone accused of murder. She's staying right there in that cell till the grand jury indicts her."
"Oh. Okay. Then please give me a copy of the magistrate's written finding of probable cause."
"Do what?"
"My client was arrested at eight Friday morning without a warrant and charged with a felony, to-wit, murder under section nineteen of the Texas Penal Code. Section seventeen of the Code of Criminal Procedure requires that she be released within seventy-two hours after her arrest unless a magistrate determines that probable cause exists to believe she committed the crime. That time period expired at eight this morning. So you must either show me the magistrate's determination of probable cause or release my client."
The officer stared slack-jawed at Scott.
"To- what? " He held up a finger as if gauging the wind. "Uhh … hold on a sec." He swiveled around in his chair and called out. "Sarge—we got a lawyer up here quoting the Penis Code. He's from Dallas. "
A weary-looking older cop eating a donut at a desk along the back wall glanced up from his newspaper. He finished off the donut, removed his reading glasses, and pushed himself out of his chair. He hitched up his uniform trousers then walked up to the window. When he arrived, the officer manning the window held up Scott's business card. Sarge took it and held it at arm's length trying to find a focus point without his reading glasses. He finally gave up and instead gave Scott a once-over.
"You a lawyer?"
Scott nodded. "Scott Fenney from Dallas. I represent Rebecca Fenney."
Sarge jabbed his head at the officer manning the window.
"Junior here, he thinks he's some kind of comedian, been saying 'Penis Code' since he hired on a year ago. Problem is, he's a one-joke comedian and it ain't even a funny joke." Sarge sighed. "But
Back to the reporter: "No, Hal, that proves he's a better lawyer than you. For enough money, a lawyer will represent anyone—even his wife who left him for the man she's now accused of murdering."
Scott sighed and said, "Ex-wife."
SEVEN
The Galveston County Jail stands at 54th and Ball Street, one block off Broadway, the main drag on the Island. The sand-colored, 1,250-bed structure is framed by palm trees and gives the impression of a retirement community. For some of the inmates, it might be.
Scott steered the Jetta into the parking lot and saw that Renée Ramirez and her cameraman remained camped out on the front sidewalk. But she was expecting a Dallas lawyer—a guy wearing a suit and driving a luxury automobile, not a guy wearing shorts and sneakers and driving a Volkswagen—so Scott walked right past her without attracting more than a coy smile and a whiff of her sweet perfume. He entered the lobby and went over to the bail window but turned at the sound of chains dragging across concrete: a line of tattooed men wearing white GALVESTON COUNTY INMATE jumpsuits and shackles shuffled past and through a secure door under the close supervision of two guards packing pump shotguns, but not before one inmate said something in Spanish to a female guard and grabbed his crotch, which earned him a rifle butt rammed into his ribs.
"Help you?"
Scott turned back to the window. A chubby young man who looked more like a mall cop than a certified Texas peace officer addressed him. He wore a khaki Galveston County Sheriff's Department uniform and sat at a desk on the other side of the open window. Behind him, more uniformed officers sat at desks scattered about the room.
"I'm Scott Fenney from Dallas." He handed his business card to the officer, who looked at it and frowned as if it were written in French. "I'm representing Rebecca Fenney. I'm here to pick her up."
The officer looked up from the card. "Pick her up? What, like a prom date?" He shook his head. "Sorry, buddy, you don't just pick up someone accused of murder. She's staying right there in that cell till the grand jury indicts her."
"Oh. Okay. Then please give me a copy of the magistrate's written finding of probable cause."
"Do what?"
"My client was arrested at eight Friday morning without a warrant and charged with a felony, to-wit, murder under section nineteen of the Texas Penal Code. Section seventeen of the Code of Criminal Procedure requires that she be released within seventy-two hours after her arrest unless a magistrate determines that probable cause exists to believe she committed the crime. That time period expired at eight this morning. So you must either show me the magistrate's determination of probable cause or release my client."
The officer stared slack-jawed at Scott.
"To- what? " He held up a finger as if gauging the wind. "Uhh … hold on a sec." He swiveled around in his chair and called out. "Sarge—we got a lawyer up here quoting the Penis Code. He's from Dallas. "
A weary-looking older cop eating a donut at a desk along the back wall glanced up from his newspaper. He finished off the donut, removed his reading glasses, and pushed himself out of his chair. He hitched up his uniform trousers then walked up to the window. When he arrived, the officer manning the window held up Scott's business card. Sarge took it and held it at arm's length trying to find a focus point without his reading glasses. He finally gave up and instead gave Scott a once-over.
"You a lawyer?"
Scott nodded. "Scott Fenney from Dallas. I represent Rebecca Fenney."
Sarge jabbed his head at the officer manning the window.
"Junior here, he thinks he's some kind of comedian, been saying 'Penis Code' since he hired on a year ago. Problem is, he's a one-joke comedian and it ain't even a funny joke." Sarge sighed. "But
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