then, you don't get Phi Beta Kappas for jailers, do you, Junior?"
"Nope, sure don't, Sarge."
Sarge eyed Junior a moment, then shook his head and turned back to Scott.
"So what can I do you for?"
"Release Rebecca Fenney."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because the law requires you to."
"The law? "
As if Scott had said "the Pope."
"My client was arrested without a warrant … " Scott repeated his recitation of the law for Sarge then added, "And since my client has no assets, she must be released on her personal recognizance."
"Is that so?"
"That is so, Sarge. So please give me either the magistrate's written determination of probable cause or my client."
Sarge grunted and scratched himself then pivoted and went back to his desk. He put on his reading glasses, picked up his phone, and dialed. He didn't lower his voice.
"Yeah, Rex, we got a lawyer over here, says he represents the Fenney woman … No, he's from Dallas"—Sarge focused on Scott's card through his reading glasses—"name's A. Scott Fenney … Hold on, I'll ask." Sarge turned to Scott. "You the A. Scott Fenney?"
"I'm the only one I know."
Back to the phone. "He don't know … What? … Hold on." Back to Scott. "You related to her?"
"She's my ex-wife."
Sarge blinked hard. "You're kidding?" Sarge returned to the phone, a bit amused. "Says she's his ex … Yeah, I'd let mine rot in jail, too, that no-good … Anywho, he says we gotta release her on PR 'cause she was arrested without a warrant and no one took her before a magistrate for a PC hearing and … Really? … I'll be damned … Okay, you're the boss."
Sarge hung up and walked back to the window. To Junior he said, "Cut her loose." To Scott he said, "The D.A., he said you're absolutely right … and he said to come see him tomorrow morning." Sarge nodded at the front door behind Scott. "Down the street, in the courthouse."
"I'll do that."
Scott handed Junior the bag of clothes Karen had given him for Rebecca then he stepped away from the window. One side of the large lobby was filled with rows of chairs occupied by family and friends of the residents, the other side with rows of closed-circuit TV monitors mounted on small cubicles occupied by a half-dozen people. On the monitors were the faces of inmates, white, black, and brown, some of whom looked sad, others lost, and a few like they belonged in a maximum security prison instead of a county jail. In front of the monitors sat a lower-rung lawyer counseling his client—"Now, Ernesto …"—and a minister praying with a crying soul—"Dear Lord in Heaven"—and weary women and young children paying a daily visit—"Hi, Daddy!" a little girl shrieked when her father's face appeared on the screen. Scott found a vacant chair among other women and children waiting for daddy to be bailed out of jail as if it were just part of their normal Monday routine and waited for his wife to be processed out of jail.
Ex-wife.
He never had closure, as they say on TV. Never had a chance to say goodbye. Twenty-two months and eleven days ago she had left him. He hadn't spoken to her or seen her since, except once on television. One Sunday, a few months after she had left, Scott had watched the final round of a golf tournament Trey Rawlins had won; after he had putted out for the victory, the camera caught her jumping into his arms and kissing him—on national TV. Scott had never watched another golf tournament.
How should he greet her now? Should he shake hands with her? Should he kiss her on the cheek like Leno greeting a female guest? Should he hug her? How is a man supposed to greet his ex-wife who's accused of murdering the man she cheated with? How is a lawyer supposed to greet his new client who used to be his wife? What are the rules for this sort of thing?
He hadn't come up with any answers when the secure door opened, and she was suddenly standing there. She was dressed in a knit shirt, shorts, and sandals. She wore no makeup. Her red hair was ratty
"Nope, sure don't, Sarge."
Sarge eyed Junior a moment, then shook his head and turned back to Scott.
"So what can I do you for?"
"Release Rebecca Fenney."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because the law requires you to."
"The law? "
As if Scott had said "the Pope."
"My client was arrested without a warrant … " Scott repeated his recitation of the law for Sarge then added, "And since my client has no assets, she must be released on her personal recognizance."
"Is that so?"
"That is so, Sarge. So please give me either the magistrate's written determination of probable cause or my client."
Sarge grunted and scratched himself then pivoted and went back to his desk. He put on his reading glasses, picked up his phone, and dialed. He didn't lower his voice.
"Yeah, Rex, we got a lawyer over here, says he represents the Fenney woman … No, he's from Dallas"—Sarge focused on Scott's card through his reading glasses—"name's A. Scott Fenney … Hold on, I'll ask." Sarge turned to Scott. "You the A. Scott Fenney?"
"I'm the only one I know."
Back to the phone. "He don't know … What? … Hold on." Back to Scott. "You related to her?"
"She's my ex-wife."
Sarge blinked hard. "You're kidding?" Sarge returned to the phone, a bit amused. "Says she's his ex … Yeah, I'd let mine rot in jail, too, that no-good … Anywho, he says we gotta release her on PR 'cause she was arrested without a warrant and no one took her before a magistrate for a PC hearing and … Really? … I'll be damned … Okay, you're the boss."
Sarge hung up and walked back to the window. To Junior he said, "Cut her loose." To Scott he said, "The D.A., he said you're absolutely right … and he said to come see him tomorrow morning." Sarge nodded at the front door behind Scott. "Down the street, in the courthouse."
"I'll do that."
Scott handed Junior the bag of clothes Karen had given him for Rebecca then he stepped away from the window. One side of the large lobby was filled with rows of chairs occupied by family and friends of the residents, the other side with rows of closed-circuit TV monitors mounted on small cubicles occupied by a half-dozen people. On the monitors were the faces of inmates, white, black, and brown, some of whom looked sad, others lost, and a few like they belonged in a maximum security prison instead of a county jail. In front of the monitors sat a lower-rung lawyer counseling his client—"Now, Ernesto …"—and a minister praying with a crying soul—"Dear Lord in Heaven"—and weary women and young children paying a daily visit—"Hi, Daddy!" a little girl shrieked when her father's face appeared on the screen. Scott found a vacant chair among other women and children waiting for daddy to be bailed out of jail as if it were just part of their normal Monday routine and waited for his wife to be processed out of jail.
Ex-wife.
He never had closure, as they say on TV. Never had a chance to say goodbye. Twenty-two months and eleven days ago she had left him. He hadn't spoken to her or seen her since, except once on television. One Sunday, a few months after she had left, Scott had watched the final round of a golf tournament Trey Rawlins had won; after he had putted out for the victory, the camera caught her jumping into his arms and kissing him—on national TV. Scott had never watched another golf tournament.
How should he greet her now? Should he shake hands with her? Should he kiss her on the cheek like Leno greeting a female guest? Should he hug her? How is a man supposed to greet his ex-wife who's accused of murdering the man she cheated with? How is a lawyer supposed to greet his new client who used to be his wife? What are the rules for this sort of thing?
He hadn't come up with any answers when the secure door opened, and she was suddenly standing there. She was dressed in a knit shirt, shorts, and sandals. She wore no makeup. Her red hair was ratty
Similar Books
