The Case Against William (15 page)

And
bounce.

The
Texas Tech cheerleaders bounced past William. They glanced his way. He wore
the tight uniform pants but only a snug sweat-wicking sleeveless T-shirt that
clung to his muscular body. His long blond hair blew in the breeze. He was a
star. And the girls loved the stars. They just couldn't help themselves.
They grew up wanting to be Cinderella at the ball, plucked out of obscurity by
Prince Charming and given the perfect life. And today, a big, tall, handsome,
and rich star athlete was as good as it gets when it came to Prince Charmings.
Consequently, William Tucker did not have to seek out girls. They sought him
out. He called out to the cheerleaders.

"The
Dizzy Rooster on Sixth Street. Tonight. Be there."

They
giggled. He watched them across the field to the visiting side. He had had
sex with most of the UT cheerleaders, so he was now working his way through the
opponents' cheer squads. He was twenty years old, a sophomore, and on top of
his world.

"Focus,
William," Coach Bruce said.

He
was the quarterback coach, which is to say, William's personal mentor,
confidant, sports psychologist, best friend, and coach. They spent every
practice together, working on the game plan and plays, techniques, audibles,
and passes. He called and texted William several times each day outside of
practice. He would always ask a football question, but he was just checking up
on his star quarterback. Trying to keep him out of trouble. Which usually
began with girls and ended in a bar on Sixth Street.

William
just smiled and threw the ball downfield. The ball seemed to travel through
the air with even greater velocity. He was pumped. The adrenaline, the
testosterone, the girls, the game. God, it was great to be young. Talented.
Handsome. Bigger. Stronger. Faster. When he had first stepped on this field
last year, he was already the best college quarterback in the nation. He had
been a finalist for the Heisman Trophy last year; he was the frontrunner this
year. The team was undefeated after seven games—after seven perfect games from
William Tucker. But he couldn't have a single bad game. One bad game, and he
could kiss the Heisman goodbye; one loss, and the team would drop out of
contention for the national championship. But he didn't have bad games. He
had great games and even greater games.

It
was good to be William Tucker.

"William."

"Yeah?"

Coach
Bruce nodded past him toward the home sideline. William turned and looked that
way. At his father. Who was stumbling drunk. He tripped over some equipment
and fell to the turf.

"Shit."

William
flipped the football to Coach Bruce then ran over to his father. His father
held up a hand as if to high-five, but instead William lifted him up as if he
were a bag of feathers. He was only fifty-three, but he looked like an old
man.

"Hey,
William."

His
words came out slurred. He embraced William; he smelled the whiskey on his
father's breath, like other dads reek of aftershave.

"Dad,
please, I'm getting ready for the game."

"Just
wanted to say good luck."

More
slurred words. He had gone deeper into the bottle after the divorce. After
Mom left him. After he lost everything. All because of a dead girl. All
because he blamed himself. The jury had sentenced Bradley Todd to death. But
Frank Tucker had sentenced himself to a worse fate: life without forgiveness.
One of the equipment guys walked by. William grabbed his arm.

"Bennie,
take my dad up to a skybox, get him some coffee, something to eat."

Bennie
nodded.

"Dad,
go with Bennie. He'll take care of you."

"Okay.
See you after the game, son."

Bennie
took his dad's arm and led him away, like a nurse helping an old person.
William watched his father stagger away then turned back to the field. All
action had stopped. Every player and coach stared at William Tucker a long
awkward moment then abruptly turned away. As if from a train wreck.

His
dad was a drunk.

Joe
Namath was arguably the greatest quarterback to ever play the game. He was
certainly the most celebrated. He was the first superstar celebrity athlete,
back in the sixties, when he played for the New York Jets. "Broadway
Joe," as the press had dubbed him, was young, talented, and handsome. He
threw passes on the field, and women threw themselves at him off the field. He
was a man's man and a ladies' man. He had it all. Including numerous knee
injuries. He played in pain most of his career. He turned to alcohol to ease
the pain. By the time he retired, he was an alcoholic. Joe hit rock bottom in
2003 when he showed up drunk at a Jet's game honoring him and during a sideline
interview with a female reporter, he begged her for a kiss. On national TV.
All of America cringed for Joe.

Just
as all of William's teammates now cringed for him.

He
jogged back over to Coach Bruce and the receivers. Coach Bruce tossed a ball
to William. He yelled, "Hut!" D-Quan ran downfield and broke to the
sideline on a fourteen-yard-out. William took three steps back, set his feet,
and fired the ball.

It
sailed ten feet over D-Quan's head.

William
threw five interceptions that game. He fumbled twice. The Longhorns were
losing 28-21 with 2:03 left in the game. William dropped back to pass, but the
middle of the field opened up, so he ran. Fast. Ten yards. Twenty. Thirty.
A touchdown would tie the game. They could still win in overtime. They could
remain undefeated. They could remain in the hunt for the national
championship. He could remain the frontrunner for the Heisman. He could see
the end zone.

He
did not see the strong safety.

The
strong safety was running full speed—twenty-two miles per hour—when he launched
his two-hundred-twenty-pound body helmet first at William's head. His helmet
impacted William's helmet from the side with the force of a freight train.
William's brain slammed against the left side of his skull then ricocheted back
and hit the right side of his skull, causing William to suffer traumatic brain
trauma. Bruising of his brain. A concussion. William didn't remember
anything after that. His head was spinning, and his ears were ringing. He was
lying flat on his back on the turf. Through the fog he could make out blurry
figures standing over him.

"William.
William. You okay?"

"Dad?"

"Oh,
shit. Let's get him up and to the bench."

They
pulled him up. Someone held William's right arm over his shoulders; someone
else held William's left arm over his shoulders. They led him to the
sideline. The crowd groaned. They put him on the bench. Someone got in his
face.

"William,
it's Coach Bruce."

"I
can play."

"You
sure?"

"Yeah."

"Where
are we?"

"Dallas."

"What
team do you play for?"

"Cowboys."

"What
team are we playing?"

"Giants."

"What's
your name?"

"Troy."

William
bent over and threw up. He heard a different voice above him.

"Can
he go?"

"No,"
Coach Bruce said. "Probably has a concussion. He thinks he's playing for
the Cowboys against the Giants."

"Does
he think he's Roger Staubach?"

"No.
He thinks he's Troy Aikman."

"Good.
If he thought he was Romo, I'd take him out. Send him back in."

William
went back into the game and fumbled on the next play.

Frank
Tucker had sobered up by the time he walked into the emergency room at the hospital
in downtown Austin. He stood just outside the open door to his son's room.
William lay propped up in the bed; a white bandage was wrapped around his left
elbow. A coach and a nurse stood next to the bed. No one noticed Frank.
Their eyes were locked on a television perched on the wall; it was tuned to a
sports channel. Two analysts sat behind a desk in the "college football
game day control room" in New York City; they were conducting a
post-mortem on the UT-Tech game in Austin, Texas.

"It
was a humiliating defeat for Texas today," one analyst said. "An
embarrassing game for William Tucker. The Longhorns lost any chance at a
national championship, and William Tucker lost any chance at a Heisman Trophy.
The Longhorns' season ended today with the worst game William Tucker has played
in his entire life. Three fumbles and five interceptions. There's not a lot
of love for William Tucker in Austin today. God, he had a terrible game."

"Hard
to focus on football when his dad shows up stinking drunk for his game."

A
video clip ran showing Frank before the game, stumbling over equipment and
falling down … William running over and helping him up … the equipment
guy escorting Frank from the field.

"How
embarrassing is that? With a dad like that, you don't need opponents."

William's
eyes fell from the television and found Frank. The coach and the nurse looked
his way, glanced at each other, and walked out past him without making eye
contact or uttering a word. Frank stepped into the room. His son seemed
utterly defeated. What does a father say in such a moment?

"Next
game will be better, son."

Not
that. His son glared at him.

"You
destroyed yourself, Mom, Becky … and now you're trying to destroy me.
You're not going to take me down with you, Dad. Go away. And stay away. I
don't ever want to see you again."

His
son wiped tears from his face.

"I'm
a winner, Dad. You're a fucking loser."

Two
types of men find their way to Rockport, Texas: fishermen and losers. Frank
Tucker did not fish. He drank. Whiskey. Vodka. Beer. Pretty much anything
with alcohol content. Every day. All day. And night. Until he fell asleep.

Only
then did he find peace from the past.

Frank
opened his eyes then averted them from the morning sun shining through the open
windows. The present beckoned; he was not yet conscious enough for the past to
torment him … for her face to haunt him … to hear her pleading … as
Bradley Todd raped her … and her screams … as he stabbed her …
forty-seven times … her cries as she lay dying … her last gasps of
life. No, he still had precious time not to think of Sarah Barnes. He wiped
drool from his mouth and shivered against the sea breeze. He had slept in his
clothes again, shorts and a T-shirt. Rusty had taken the blanket. Again.

The
dog barked.

Frank's
head pounded like the surf against the seawall. Only there was no seawall on
this isolated stretch of sand fronting the Gulf of Mexico. Rockport was a
small fishing town on the Texas coast, about halfway between Galveston and
Brownsville but a long way from River Oaks. A long fall. He had started
falling and hadn't stopped until he landed in that sand. Face first. Drunk.
He had passed out on the beach almost two years ago and had never left.

Or
stopped drinking.

You
do that when your life falls apart. When everything you worked for the last
thirty years is suddenly gone from your life. When your wife leaves you for
another man, a richer, sober man. When your children no longer answer their
phones when they see your name on the caller ID. When the state bar
association suspends your license to practice law because you showed up for
trial drunk. Three times. When a man invests everything he has—everything he
is and everything he ever will be—into his family, and then his family is
abruptly ripped from his life like his wallet being snatched by a thief on the
street, he is left adrift in a harsh world. He becomes a castaway.

And
he drinks.

The
local motto was
Rockport: A drinking town with a fishing problem.

Frank
sucked in the salt air. He was running the beach with Rusty. He still wore
the same clothes. They were both barefooted. He had once run five miles every
day, either on a treadmill at his downtown club or around River Oaks on
weekends; but now one mile proved too much for his body. Being fifty-five
years old and a drunk will do that to a man.

He
stopped short and threw up.

He
spit the last of the bile then stood and stretched to the sun. His morning
detox. He stepped into the surf, unzipped his shorts, and peed. In front of
God and everyone, except there was no one else in sight. Only a few seagulls
witnessed his act of public indecency, and they wouldn't talk. He and Rusty
walked the last four miles to the rock jetty that jutted out into the sea and
then the two hundred paces to the point. The waves hit the rocks and splashed
man and dog. He stared out at the endless sea.

If
this wasn't the end of the world, he was close to it.

Where
the hell's the shampoo? Frank felt the bottom with his toes—rock, wood, stone,
another rock—

"Shit!"

Not
a rock. He lifted his leg until his foot cleared the waist-deep water. A crab
had clasped its claw onto his big toe and wasn't letting go. Frank yanked the
crustacean loose and flung it into the surf. He searched with his foot again
until he found the plastic bottle then ducked underwater; he emerged with the
shampoo. He squirted the gel into his palm and applied it to his shaggy hair.
He needed a haircut. He bathed in the Gulf of Mexico each morning because the
sea was warmer than the shower; the water heater had broken, and he couldn't
afford a new one. He scrubbed his hair then shampooed his body. He had put on
weight. A liquid diet would do that to a middle-aged man.

Frank
regarded his beachfront estate sitting just beyond the high tide line. The sea
wind had caused the wood structure to cant landward, making it appear as if it
might fall over at any moment; a strong gust could finish the job. The
eight-hundred-square-foot bungalow—which sounded more romantic than
"shack"—had been paid to him in lieu of legal fees in his final
case. He had tried the case drunk but had still won an acquittal. His client
was happy, but the judge was not amused; he reported Frank to the state bar.
The third judge to do so. Three strikes and Frank Tucker was out. His license
was promptly suspended pending substance abuse counseling and rehabilitation.