The Case Against William (12 page)

"Are
you screwing my brother?"

Rhonda
smiled.

"Yes."

All
the girls had answered as one.

"Daddy,
I'm worried about William."

The
next morning, Frank sat at his desk in the study on the backside of the house
looking out at the pool. The kids were at home with him; Liz had gone to the
funeral of Beverly Joiner, another socialite who had died of breast cancer.
Frank didn't know her or her husband, Dale. All he knew about them was what
Liz had told him: he was in oil and gas, and they lived in a
fifteen-thousand-square-foot home abutting the country club. On the phone were
a dozen messages from corporate lawyers in the biggest firms in Texas and two
dozen more from sports agents for top college and professional athletes who had
run afoul of the law and now sought Frank Tucker's representation. The Bradley
Todd case had put Frank in the national press again. His fame had grown. As
had his son's. On the desk sat a stack of letters addressed to William Tucker
from the head football coaches at UT, A&M, Notre Dame, LSU, Florida, USC, UCLA,
Ohio State, Alabama, and two dozen other Division I-A football schools in the
country. Recruiting a sophomore in high school. Sitting on the other side of
the desk as if she were a client was Becky.

"Why?"

"He's
changing."

"How?"

"He's
becoming a star. It's changing him. His attitude. About himself. And girls.
Daddy, he's having sex with the cheerleaders."

"Which
one?"

"All
of them."

"Pretty
cool, huh, Dad?"

Becky
had left, and William held a hand out for a high-five. Frank slapped his son's
hand then they sat on opposite sides of Frank's desk. William was speaking of
the recruiting letters, not sex with cheerleaders. He was drinking a protein
shake.

"Sure,
son, it's nice that all these coaches think you could play college ball."

"They
love me."

"No.
They don't love you, William. They need you. There's a difference. They're
paid millions to win football games, so they need players like you to keep
their jobs. They need you, but they don't love you. Your family loves you,
win or lose. And we'll love you even if you throw five interceptions."

"I've
never thrown five interceptions in one game."

"You
will."

Frank
leaned back in his chair.

"Son,
are you having sex?"

"Dad,
did you see they indicted Barry Bonds for lying under oath to a grand jury
about the steroids scandal?"

Barry
Bonds was the all-time major league baseball home run hitter. His agent's
message was on Frank's phone.

"Don't
change the subject."

"And
Marion Jones confessed to doping during the Olympics in Sydney when she won
five medals."

She
was facing prison time. Her agent's message was also on the phone.

"What
about you? Are you confessing?"

"To
doping?"

"To
sexing?"

"Is
that really a word?"

"It's
a question."

"Am
I under oath like Barry?"

"You're
under my roof."

They
regarded each other a long moment then William smiled and shrugged.

"What
can I say? The girls love William Tucker."

"You're
speaking of yourself in the third person now?"

Another shrug. "All the pros do."

"You're
not a pro. What's the girl's name?"

"What
girl?"

"The
girl you're having sex with."

"Which
one?"

"There's
more than one?"

"Not
at the same time."

"You've
had sex with more than one girl?"

"Dad,
it's no big deal. It's like texting. Bobby said—"

"Bobby
your center?"

"Yeah."

"You're
taking advice from an offensive lineman?"

"He's
a senior."

"That
doesn't mean he's smart. Son, there are laws. If you have sex with younger
girls—"

"They're
older."

"How
old?"

"Juniors,
seniors, college …"

"You're
having sex with college girls?"

"They
come home for the weekend."

His
son had stopped asking sex questions at the dinner table a few months before.
Now Frank knew why: he was getting his questions answered by older girls.
Frank decided that he had better ask a few questions of his own.

"William,
you know if you impregnate a girl and she has the baby, you're responsible for
child support for eighteen years?"

"All the girls are on the pill."

"You
can still contract a sexually transmitted disease, like AIDS."

"They're
good girls."

"Are
you using condoms?"

"Seriously?"

"Testosterone
and stupidity strike again."

"Huh?"

"Your
body is acting like a man, but your brain is thinking like a boy."

"What?"

"You're
doing something stupid. You're playing Russian roulette with your life. I
want you to stop."

"Playing
Russian roulette?"

"Having
sex."

William
regarded Frank as if he had just said, "Stop having protein shakes."

"No
way. Look, Dad, I know sex was a big deal back when you were my age, but it's
not today. It's just a part of dating—go to the movie, get a burger, have
sex. Everyone does it." He smiled his movie star smile. "Sex is
good for William Tucker."

Frank
sighed. How could he protect his son from himself?

"Then
at least wear a condom."

Sex
used to be good for Frank Tucker. His first thought was that he was jealous of
his sixteen-year-old son. His second thought was that he should grill his son
a thick steak—he couldn't keep that kind of sex life up on protein shakes
alone. But he quickly admonished himself for employing a double standard with
his children. If Becky were having sex with several different boys every week,
he'd be devastated, not proud. And he had to confess, he felt a twinge of
pride in his son's sexual exploits. He shouldn't, but he did. His son was
living every sixteen-year-old boy's dream, the same dreams Frank had
entertained at sixteen. Should he criticize his son for succeeding where Frank
had failed? He did not see that William Tucker had taken the first step to
entitlement. But he did see his son take the second step.

"I
need you to mow the lawn and wash the cars today," Frank said.

William nodded, pulled out his new iPhone, and began texting.

"I'll
get my people on it."

Frank
chuckled. "You're a sophomore in high school. You don't have
people."

"Sure
I do."

He
sent the text then sat back, as if waiting for a response. Thirty seconds
later, he got one. He read the text then smiled.

"Two
freshman will be here in an hour to cut the grass and wash the cars."

"You're
kidding?"

"Nope.
Freshmen volunteer to do stuff for the football players."

"Why?"

"Because
they can't play football. So doing stuff for us gives them a connection to the
team. They want to help the team win."

"By
mowing your grass and washing your cars?"

"
Your
grass and
your
cars."

"William,
other people don't exist for your convenience. They're not just part of your
entourage. Being a football player doesn't make you special."

"Sure
it does."

"No,
it doesn't."

His
son gestured at the recruiting letters.

"All
those coaches think I'm special. Everyone does. The media, other players,
parents, classmates, girls … Are they all lying?"

"No.
But they mean you're a special football player—that's determined by what you do
on the field—not a special human being—that's determined by what you do off the
field."

"How
many human beings can do what I can do on a football field?"

"Not
many."

"So
I'm a special human being."

"No,
William, you're a lucky human being." Frank pointed a thumb in the
direction of the medical center in downtown Houston. "But you're no more
special than a child over in MD Anderson's cancer ward. You're just luckier.
There's a difference. Never underestimate the role luck plays in life."

"I'd
rather be big, strong, and fast than lucky."

"William
…"

"Dad,
Ray is a math/science genius. He'll probably discover the cure for cancer, but
I'll make a lot more money playing football than he's going to make doing
that."

"Do
you still see him?"

William shook his head.

"Why
not?"

"He
still goes to the Academy."

"He
still lives right here in River Oaks."

"And,
you know, he's a nerd."

"That
didn't matter before."

William
shrugged. "We grew apart. Like you and Mom."

He
was sixteen. He understood now why his father and mother slept in different
bedrooms.

"People
look at me differently," his son said. "Like I'm a star."

"Who?"

"Everyone.
I see the dads staring at me when I walk from the locker room to the field.
They line up to look at me, like I'm an animal at the zoo. Do people line up
to look at you when you walk into a courthouse?"

"No.
Lawyers aren't heroes anymore. Athletes are our heroes now."

"I'm
a hero?"

"Some
people might look at you that way, William, like you're a star or a hero, but
you can never look at yourself that way. You have to know that it's not real.
They don't love you."

"Girls
do."

"No.
Some girls are attracted to star athletes—"

He
grinned. "A lot of girls."

Now
he was bragging. Frank shook his head. It was tough when your
sixteen-year-old son was getting more sex than you.

"Would
they have sex with you if you were a math nerd like Ray?"

His
son laughed. "Nerds don't get laid."

"William,
what I'm saying is, you've got a lot of athletic ability, more than most boys.
That ability makes you special on a football field, but nowhere else. You have
to stay grounded. Fame and stardom can make a person lose their footing in
life, slip and fall. Those people end up paying me to represent them.
William, you're a great kid. Don't let the fact that some people worship athletes
change who you are."

"Like
LeBron holding a national television special to announce his new NBA
team?"

LeBron
James was the best basketball player on the planet. When he decided to leave
his original team, the Cleveland Cavaliers, and enter the free-agent market, he
held a nationally televised event to announce where he would play basketball
the next season, as if he were the president announcing that the country was
going to war.

"Exactly
like that. Other people might think you're special, but you can't believe
that. There's a difference between being special and being lucky. You stay
the William Tucker you are now, and you'll be a happy man no matter what
happens for you in sports. Or to you."

"LeBron
seems happy."

William's
phone pinged. He read the message.

"My
people are here early."

"So
what do these freshman boys get in return for being your people?"

"Protection. No one at school messes with them. And I give
them autographed jerseys."

"Boys
at your school want to wear your autographed jerseys?"

"No.
Their dads do."

Frank
sat back and sighed. He regarded his son. He was a good kid. But he was
already falling into the celebrity athlete trap. How was his father to save
him? How do you keep a boy grounded when the world kept putting him up on a
pedestal? When the world told him daily that he's special? That he's a star?
At sixteen, the fame snowball had already started rolling downhill for his
son. And once it started rolling, it was hard to stop. It consumed everything
in its path. And Frank worried that it might consume his son.

That
William Tucker might be too good for his own good.

At
forty-nine, life was good for Frank Tucker—apparently not as good as it was for
his sixteen-year-old son, but good. He had two great kids. Becky would not
win a volleyball scholarship, but she had won acceptance to Wellesley with a
full scholarship from her father. Sixty thousand a year. She was worth every
penny. And it was probably the only college tuition he would pay. William
would win a scholarship to the school of his choice. His ticket in life. His
sexual promiscuity at sixteen concerned Frank, but what could he do about it?
Would he have stopped having sex with older girls when he was sixteen, even if
his father had asked him? No. He would not have. Of course, he didn't have
sex until his first semester at UT. And he hadn't stopped having sex until he
was forty-three.

When
he was twenty-seven, he was sure his wife loved him. The truth of the matter
is, he had married up. In his prime, he was a good-looking man; but he was not
great looking. At best, he was a five or maybe a six. Liz was a ten-plus.
She was a beauty queen at the University of Texas, no small feat. He had met
her when he was a third-year law student and she was still an undergrad; he had
already accepted a job with a Houston firm. He asked her out on a whim and was
stunned when she said yes. Because you learn at an early age where you fit on
the human food chain. Where you fit in terms of looks and wealth. You date
accordingly. A nerd doesn't ask the homecoming queen to the prom; the star
athlete doesn't ask the class ugly duckling. A poor boy doesn't date a rich
girl; a rich boy doesn't date a poor girl. Humans don't work that way. They
order themselves according to looks and wealth. They date their own kind. You
don't stray outside your place on the food chain. That's the rule.

Frank
had always observed the rule. He dated cute girls. Sweet girls. Nice girls.
But not beautiful girls. Not drop-dead gorgeous girls. Not girls like Liz.
But he had asked her out, and she had fallen in love with him. He had broken
the rules and had won the lottery.