The Case Against William (14 page)

"One
minute."

Aimed
at him was the ESPN camera. He wasn't nervous. At eighteen, he had already
given dozens of live TV interviews to local, state, and even national sports
channels. Being the top high school football player in America, his signing
would be carried live on national television. The sports cable channels ran
twenty-four/seven; Americans were addicted to sports. But mostly to football.
High school football, college football, pro football, fantasy football.
Football had captured the nation's imagination. It was America's sport.
Invented in America and played by Americans. On college campuses across the
country, football in the fall brought alumni and money and perhaps the glory of
a national championship to the school, much more than, say, a professor winning
the Nobel Prize in physics; in the year after Johnny Manziel won the Heisman
Trophy at Texas A&M, the school raised a record $740 million in donations.
The signing of a star quarterback was far more important to a college's
financial future than the signing of a star professor.

I
am special.

Consequently,
his choice held the nation's attention. Where would he go? Would he play
quarterback for the Texas Longhorns, the Texas A&M Aggies, the Notre Dame
Fighting Irish, the University of Southern California Trojans, or the Florida
Gators? Each of the five schools had live feeds into its campus, similar to
when the Olympic Committee announced the next host city. Coaches, students,
players, and alumni gathered in front of their televisions. America awaited
his decision. William Tucker's decision that day would determine which of
those five schools would have a legitimate shot at the national collegiate
football championship during the next four years. Which of those schools would
reap a revenue bonanza from bowl games, TV contracts, ticket and skybox sales,
and merchandising profits. Which of those schools would make or lose money on
their athletic department. College football today was a big business worth
billions.

"We're
live."

The
anchor from New York: "William Tucker, you're the star of this year's high
school recruiting class. A special player indeed. You're going to be a hero
to one of five colleges today."

On
the five monitors set up in front of him, William could see live shots of the
crowds of students, coaches, and alumni at each of the schools, like Catholics
waiting for the naming of the next Pope. Except these campus crowds featured
sexy cheerleaders holding posters that read WE WANT YOU, WILLIAM TUCKER and
COME PLAY WITH US, WILLIAM TUCKER and THESE STUDENT BODIES LOVE YOU, WILLIAM
TUCKER.

"William,
where are you going to play college ball?"

There
was a drum roll. Seriously, the show did a drum roll.

"Will
it be Texas, A&M, Notre Dame, USC, or Florida?"

The
campus crowds on the monitors fell silent. Students put their folded hands to
their faces as if praying. Coaches clenched their fists as if to will a
decision for their school. Athletic directors dreamed of BCS bowl game
revenues. Alumni envisioned bowl wins over their archrivals.

"I'm
taking my football talents to …"

William
reached out and hovered his hand over each of the caps for a few seconds, just
to generate some suspense for the viewers, then grabbed the UT cap and put it
on.

".
. . Austin, Texas. I will play for the Texas Longhorns."

The
crowd on the UT campus jumped for joy. Students screamed. Coaches threw their
arms into the air and hugged each other. William Tucker was coming to Austin.

The
losing crowds collapsed in stunned disbelief. Coaches cursed, and coeds
cried. Athletic directors and alumni looked as if they had just been diagnosed
with terminal cancer. William Tucker would not be playing for their team.

I
am William Tucker.

Elizabeth
Tucker stood next to her son. NCAA rules required that a parent sign the
letter of intent if the player were under twenty-one years of age. She would
sign as William Tucker's guardian. Her son would be the star she had never
been.

She
signed the letter of intent then smiled for the television camera. At
forty-six and after a few minor nips and tucks, she was still photogenic. She
wasn't the UT beauty queen that she had been twenty-four years before, but she
was still a beautiful middle-aged woman.

But
was she beautiful enough?

Beautiful
enough to compete in Houston for a wealthy middle-aged divorced or widowed
man? A man with money? They were hot commodities in Houston. So many women
forty and older had had their husbands dump them or die on them that the
competition for a man with money was fierce. At forty-six, her pool of men
with money started with the fifty year olds. A man with money her age could
marry a teenager in Houston. And beautiful though she still was, she could not
compete with a teenager. And even a fifty-year-old man with money could reach
down twenty years for a bride. Perhaps she would have to make do with a
fifty-five-year-old. Or settle for a sixty-year-old man. But settle she
would, for a man with money. Because her husband had bankrupted the Tucker
family. Two years before, he had started drinking and never stopped.

Because
of a dead girl.

They
would lose the house. The cars. The club. Becky's college. Lupe.
Everything. Hurricane Ike had already destroyed her husband's beloved beach
house. Now her husband had destroyed his family. Once word had spread through
the legal community that the great Frank Tucker was a drunk, the referrals had
stopped. Rich clients don't hire drunks to defend them in a court of law. Not
when their freedom is on the line. Not even if the drunken lawyer is Frank
Tucker. The firm held out hope that he would return to form, but after a year
they had fired Frank. Now Elizabeth Tucker's life—the life she had worked so
hard to build the last twenty-four years—would be ripped from her being as
brutally as a purse-snatcher ripping her Gucci handbag from her grasp. It
would all be gone.

She
had filed for divorce that very day.

William
took a deep breath then blew it out and pushed the barbell up. Three hundred
fifty pounds. Once. Twice. Ten times. He replaced the barbell in the rack
and sat up on the bench. He was pumping iron in the school's weight room,
which rivaled any of the college weight rooms he had toured on his recruiting
visits.

"So
I tell the coach that my jersey number is twelve, you know, 'cause it was Joe
Namath's number. And he says, 'Well, we have another player wearing twelve,
but he's a senior, so you can have it next year.' I said, 'I've always worn
twelve. It's my number.' And he says, 'William, I can't take his number away
from him.' And I say, 'Sure you can, Coach. Just ask him if he'd rather wear
number twelve or have me quarterbacking the team with a chance to win the
national championship."

His
teammates laughed. But not Ronnie. He had not received any Division I-A
offers. Or Division I-B offers. Or even Division II offers. His football
career was over. After ten years of playing football from peewee through
varsity, after thousands of hours of training and weight-lifting and drills,
after taking steroids the last two years to get bigger—he still only weighed
two-sixty, tiny for an offensive lineman—Ronnie would be playing intramural
flag football during his collegiate career. He would also attend UT just like
William, but he would be watching the game from the stands.

He
burned with jealousy of William Tucker.

"William,"
Ronnie said, "did you know my dad is president of the bank that holds the
mortgage on your home?"

"So?"

"So
he says your dad's in default. That the bank might have to foreclose. Maybe
evict your family. You know what they do when they evict deadbeats who don't
pay their mortgage? They send a bunch of goons to your house, break down the
front door, and throw all your possessions into the front yard. It's a real
sight to see. Wonder what that's gonna feel like? All because your dad's a
fucking drunk."

The
weight room had fallen silent. The working-class white boys hated rich-boy
Ronnie; he too had come to public school to develop his football skills, but
that decision had turned out to be a bad bet. They would not come to Ronnie's
defense. The black boys just wanted a fight. They played street ball and
thrived on taunting opponents. They waited for William to make his move. He
pushed himself up from the bench and walked over to Ronnie. Without saying a
word, William punched the bigger boy in the face so hard that his knees buckled
and his two-hundred-sixty-pound body collapsed to the floor.

"Wonder
what that feels like, Ronnie?"

Becky
Tucker sat on her bed in her dorm room at Wellesley College outside Boston.
She had just watched her brother on national TV. It seemed unreal. He was
only eighteen and still in high school. She was twenty and a junior in
college. She had made straight As her first two years and the first semester
of her third year. It was almost Christmas break. Admin had sent her an email
that morning. Tuition for her spring semester had not yet been paid. She
called her dad. After a dozen rings, he picked up. He sounded groggy. She
knew why.

"Daddy,
are you awake?"

It
was noon Texas time.

"Uh,
yeah, honey, I'm awake. Sort of."

She
explained the tuition situation.

"Oh,
uh … well …"

"Daddy,
I don't need to go to Wellesley. I can pack up my stuff and ship it home. I
can finish college at UT or A&M, a public college, someplace closer to
home, to save money."

"I
don't know … maybe …"

His
voice drifted off. She heard his snoring.

"Daddy!"

She
started crying.

"It
wasn't your fault, Daddy."

William
walked in through the back door and found his father sleeping on the couch in
the den. He still wore his bathrobe. He hadn't showered or shaved. The
phone, an empty whiskey bottle, and Rusty lay on the floor next to the couch.

His
dad was a fucking drunk.

Becky
had escaped to Boston; he would escape to Austin. William would graduate early
from high school so he could enroll at UT for the spring semester. UT, like
all the big football powerhouses, enrolled its top recruits for the spring
semester so they could get acclimated to college life—of course, it wasn't as
if they were seventeen-year-old newbies; most had been held back one or two
years, so they were nineteen or older—and participate in spring training.
Learn the system. Work out in Austin over the summer. Be ready to start in
the fall. William Tucker's journey to the NFL began in three weeks.

His
life at home ended in three weeks.

Which
was good. Mom and Dad fought constantly now; or rather, Mom constantly yelled
at Dad now. He didn't go to the office anymore. He had no office; his firm had
fired him. Mom was panicked that she'd lose the house. Be foreclosed on. Get
evicted. William would go to UT, but where would she go? Becky had already
gotten out. William wanted out. UT was his way out. Football. The only
thing he could depend on his entire life. Football was always there for him.
His dad stirred awake. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his bathrobe and
struggled to sit up. He saw William standing there.

"Hey,
William."

His
dad held up a hand as if to high-five. William did not take a step in his
father's direction.

"You
missed the signing."

"Oh,
shit. Was that today?"

"Yeah.
It was today."

"Sorry."

The
doorbell rang. William walked to the front of the house and answered the
door. A man stood on the porch; he held a folded-up document. He looked up at
William.

"Frank
Tucker?"

"That's
my dad."

"Is
he home?"

"Yeah."

"May
I see him?"

William
shrugged. "Why not?"

William
led the man into the den. He pointed at his dad.

"That's
him."

The
man stepped closer.

"Frank
Tucker?"

"Yeah."

The
man tossed the document to William's dad. It hit his leg and fell to the
floor.

"You've
been served."

The
man turned and walked out. William heard the front door shut. He stepped over
and picked up the document. He unfolded it and read the heading:
"Petition for Divorce."

"What
is it?" his dad asked.

"Mom's
leaving you."

William
dropped the document in his father's lap. He started to walk out but turned
back.

"You
didn't kill that girl, Dad. Bradley Todd did. He was guilty, and the jury put
him on death row. You were innocent, but you put yourself on death row."

William
wiped away the tears that now came.

"We
were innocent, too, Dad."

William
rifled the ball to D-Quan on a Train route. Fifty yards downfield, the ball
dropped into his favorite receiver's hands; D-Quan never broke stride. Coach
Bruce tossed William another football; he dropped back three steps, set his
feet, and rifled a pass to Cuz on an out pattern. Perfect. Another ball.
Another perfect pass to Outlaw on a crossing route. And another perfect pass
to Cowboy on a curl.

William
Tucker was as close to perfect as a quarterback could be.

It
was ten-thirty on a November Saturday morning in Austin, Texas. The sun was shining
on the stadium and on William Tucker. The team was warming up—jogging,
stretching, throwing, catching, kicking, punting. The band was tuning up. The
cheerleaders were jumping up. The fans were arriving in burnt orange shirts
and caps and jerseys. It was college football game day in America. It was
glorious. The Longhorns would play a home game against Texas Tech at noon on
national television. Cameras occupied various strategic points around the
stadium to capture every bit of action on the field and off. They always cut
to the stands between plays to catch gorgeous young coeds bouncing up and down;
middle-aged men watching from home loved bouncing breasts, and bouncing breasts
brought higher ratings. The coeds knew that the best chance of getting on
national TV was to wear revealing clothes.