The Case Against William (16 page)

Which
was still pending two years later.

One
day a developer would come along and put up condos along this stretch of beach,
and the town would declare his bungalow uninhabitable to make room for yuppies
from Houston or refugees from Matamoros. Until that day came, this was home to
Frank Tucker. And Rusty. The dog bathed only once a week, so he chased gulls
on the beach while Frank bathed. He went underwater to rinse his hair and
body. Another crab scurried along the bottom—or was it the same crab? They all
look alike. Frank grabbed the shampoo and stood; he wiped the water from his
eyes and combed his hair back with his fingers then walked out of the surf and
onto the sand. A white-haired couple wearing wraparound sunglasses had
wandered onto his part of the beach wielding long metal detectors—more tourists
searching for lost Spanish treasure. Good luck with that. Frank walked past
them; they recoiled as if they had seen a ghost.

"Morning,"
Frank said as he walked past them.

They
stood speechless. Not the friendly sorts, he assumed. Must be from Dallas.
That or they had never seen a grown man naked.

"We've
got a big day, buddy. Need to protein up."

Frank
filled Rusty's bowl with a high-protein feed then prepared his breakfast. He
first brewed a pot of coffee. Then he set up the blender. Into the glass
pitcher he dumped a scoop of Ion Exchanged Microfiltered Hydrolyzed vanilla
flavored whey protein … a cup of frozen organic blueberries … a cup of
frozen organic strawberries … one large organic banana … a cup of
unsweetened organic almond milk … two cups of organic plain nonfat Greek
yogurt … and a shot of vodka. The breakfast of champions. He blended the
concoction then drank directly from the pitcher. He stepped the few paces to
the small television and turned it on. Reception was fuzzy, so he adjusted the
rabbit ears. He found the
Today
show and sat down in his favorite
albeit ratty chair.
Good Morning America
on ABC was too perky for early
morning and the CBS morning show too boring, so he watched
Today
. He
liked Al. He downed the smoothie in long gulps while watching a segment on
Buzz Bissinger, the famous author of
Friday Night Lights
and father of
three, who had confessed in
GQ
to being addicted to Gucci clothes—$5,000
leather pants and $22,000 leather jackets—wearing women's underwear, makeup,
and six-inch stilettos, and having dabbled in S&M on the side. Shit, he
could have kept that to himself. The guy wrote a hell of a book about Texas
football, which became a hell of a movie about Texas football and then a hell
of a television series about Texas football, but he felt compelled to embarrass
his children in the national media. Of course, it did make Frank feel somewhat
better about himself: he had only embarrassed his son by showing up stumbling
drunk at his nationally televised football game. He placed the empty pitcher
on the plank floor next to the chair. The fruit and protein gave renewed vigor
to his body, but the vodka made him …

He
fell asleep in his chair.

Rusty
barked him awake. The sun shone through the east-facing windows so it was
still morning. Which meant either the dog had to pee or—

"Do
we have an appointment?"

Rusty
doubled as his secretary. Frank cleared his vision and pushed himself out of
his chair. He rinsed a mug and poured coffee then stepped outside. A young
man in a suit sat in one of the plastic lawn chairs on the porch. He stood and
stuck a hand out. They shook.

"Frank."

"How're
you doing, Ted?"

"Not
so good."

"Well,
let's talk about it in my office."

Ted
kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks and rolled up his trouser legs.
He kept his coat and tie on; a lawyer could get only so casual. They walked to
the sand and turned toward Galveston. Rusty bolted ahead to clear the beach of
seagulls. The first lawyer had shown up about six months after Frank had
landed in Rockport. Word quickly spread up and down the coast that the great
Frank Tucker now resided in Rockport. He could no longer practice law, but he
could still consult with lawyers who could.

"Prosecutor's
being an asshole," Ted said.

"That's
redundant."

"What?"

"You
said a lawyer's being an asshole. That's the same as saying a lawyer's being a
lawyer or an asshole's being an asshole."

"Huh?"

"Never
mind. What's he doing?"

"Withholding
exculpatory evidence … I think."

"Wouldn't
be the first time."

Ted
was a criminal defense lawyer in Corpus Christi thirty miles down the coast.
He was defending a seventeen-year-old Mexican national against federal drug
conspiracy and murder charges; an undercover DEA agent had been killed in a
buy-bust gone bad. With the border drug war invading north across the river,
it was an emotionally charged high-profile case. Ted was thirty-two, and this
was the biggest case of his young career. He practiced alone; he had no senior
partner to advise him. So he came to Frank. Often.

"But
the judge has denied every motion I've filed to force discovery."

"Why?"

"His
son was killed five years ago. Went into Mexico on spring break, didn't come
back. Mexican police said he tried to buy drugs down there, cartel murdered
him."

"And
you think his son's murder is causing the judge to be biased against your
Mexican client, an alleged cartel member and murderer?"

"Seems
that way."

They
walked in silence through the wet sand where the high tide had left seashells
and shrimp and fish out of water. Rusty returned with a stick; Frank threw it
sidearm, and the dog raced after it.

"My
client isn't getting a fair trial, Frank."

"It's
your job to see that he does."

"What
should I do?"

"Is
he innocent?"

"Yeah. He is."

"You
sure?"

Ted
nodded. "He's just a kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
All he wants is to get the hell back to Mexico."

"File
a motion for recusal."

Ted
regarded Frank as if he had just advised him to swim to Cancun.

"You
want me to ask a federal judge to withdraw from the case? Shit, Frank, he's
the only federal judge in Corpus. He could destroy my career."

"He
could send an innocent boy to prison."

Ted
stopped and picked up a shell. He flung it into the sea.

"Is
that what you would do, Frank?"

"It
is."

"For
a Mexican?"

"For
anyone."

"Why?"

"Because
that's what lawyers do. Defend the innocent."

Ted
dug his toes into the sand for a time then looked up at Frank.

"Frank,
I don't mean any disrespect, but defending the innocent is what put you on this
beach."

"No,
Ted, defending the guilty is what put me on this beach."

They
walked a bit more then returned to the bungalow where another man in a suit sat
on the porch, his shoes and socks off and his trouser legs rolled up. Ted paid
Frank with a $50 dollar bill. In Houston, he had charged $1,000 an hour.

"Thanks,
Frank."

Ted
headed up to his car on the road but turned back.

"Hey,
Frank—I hope your son wins the big game up in Dallas today. I hate
Oklahoma."

Frank
Tucker was a family man. But he had no family. His wife had divorced him and
remarried a man with money. She was now Mrs. Dale Joiner; he was the oilman
whose wife had died of breast cancer. Liz was fifty; Dale was seventy. But he
was also a billionaire, which lessened the age difference considerably.

His
daughter had come home from Wellesley and finished school at a public college.
Becky now taught English in a Houston public school. She had never needed her
father, but she drove three hours once a month to spend an afternoon on the
beach with her old man. He saw the disappointment in her eyes.

He
hadn't seen his son in two years.

Or
talked to him. Or communicated with him by mail, email, or text. Before his
cell phone plan expired, Frank had called his son several times a week and left
messages. He had even called collect—he had been past due on the bill—on the
old landline in the bungalow. But his son had never called back.

William
Tucker had no need for his father.

Who
could blame him? His father had shown up drunk for his big game; which became
his worst game. His son had banned his father from his life. But Frank Tucker
had kept up with his son's personal life through his daughter and his son's
football career through the sports pages. What father wouldn't? William had
won the Heisman Trophy his junior year and was a sure bet to win it again his
senior year. He had led his team to an undefeated record. They had four games
left in the season, but for all intents and purposes the game that afternoon
against Oklahoma would decide the national champion. Frank turned the
television on, switched channels until he found the game, and then adjusted the
rabbit ears until the reception was almost clear. The camera caught number
twelve running onto the field. Rusty barked.

"Yep,
there's our boy."

It
seemed like yesterday when William was his boy. Twelve years old and throwing
the football in the backyard. Dreaming of being a pro quarterback. Thinking
his dad was the best dad in the whole world. Those are the times a father
remembers and then regrets that they didn't last longer. That they had ended.
That the twelve-year-old boy had grown up and become a man. That he wouldn't
always be your boy.

That
he wouldn't always think that you're the best dad in the whole world.

But
he does grow up. And the boy who hugged you tightly when you came home from an
out-of-town trial, who sat in the stands with you and watched the varsity play,
who wanted to be with you, who was proud of you, who looked up to you—no longer
does. When he's twelve, you want him to be better than you; when he's
twenty-two and realizes that he is better than you, he has no reason to look up
to you. He sees his dad not as a hero but as a human. With faults and
frailties and failings and fears. And he moves on with his life. Away from
your life. And your life is less.

Without
a son.

William's
star had risen as far and as fast as Frank's star had fallen. He was
twenty-two and movie star handsome. He possessed extraordinary athletic
ability. He was big, strong, and fast. He was the best college quarterback in
the country and would be the number one pick in the NFL draft in April. He
would soon be a very rich young man.

Frank
would soon be drunk.

He
and Rusty watched the game. Texas versus Oklahoma was one of the biggest
rivalries in college sports. Longhorns versus Sooners. Burnt orange versus bright
red. Each side of the Cotton Bowl Stadium in Dallas was filled with the
respective school colors. Ninety thousand fans. Millions watching on
television. Watching William Tucker play football. Perfectly. Amazingly. He
ran for two touchdowns and threw for three more. But Oklahoma recruited most
of its players from the state of Texas too, and they had come to play, so the
game came down to the final play for William and the Longhorns. Fourth down.
Eight seconds left. Losing by four points. Fifty-four yards to the end zone.
They didn't draw up plays for that situation. The camera caught William in the
huddle, calling the play and firing up his teammates for one more big play.

Frank's
heart pounded. He did not want his son to fail.

The
team broke the huddle and hurried to the line of scrimmage. William stood back
in a shotgun and barked out the signals. One receiver went in motion across
the formation. The center snapped the ball back to William … his receivers
raced downfield … a linebacker blitzed, but the halfback cut his legs out .
. . William rolled right … to the sideline … he set his feet …
raised the ball … stepped forward … and threw the ball deep down the
far sideline … to the end zone … to D'Quandrick Simmons …
touchdown. Frank jumped out of the chair.

"Yes!"

He
low-fived Rusty's paw and fell back into his chair. That's what perfect looked
like. His son was a thing of beauty on a football field. That first college
scout eight years before—What was his name? Sam Jenkins?—had been right after
all: William Tucker was born to play football. He was special. But the scout
had been wrong about one thing: Frank had followed his advice to the
letter—public school, personal trainer and nutritionist, quarterback school,
speed coach—but his son still hated him.

The
fans swarmed onto the field and surrounded William. He threw his arms in the
air. His face showed the pure joy of perfection. The television crew stuck a
camera in his face and a female reporter yelled a question over the crowd
noise. His son took no credit. Instead, he gave all the credit to his coaches
and teammates and—

"The
Good Lord."

Frank
felt proud even from a distance of four hundred miles. His son had grown into
a fine young man. Modest. Respectful. Not your typical star athlete. The
kind of young man any father would be proud to call his own. But William
Tucker had done it without the need for a father.

Frank
Tucker never felt more useless in his life.

Frank
again woke to Rusty barking. The sun shone through the west-facing windows and
cast long shadows.

"Another
appointment?"

Rusty
dropped a golf ball in Frank's lap.

"Oh,
is it our tee time?"

Frank
Tucker teed up a Pro-V-One ball, the choice of your top touring pros. A
four-dollar golf ball. He pushed his left hand into a Footjoy cabretta leather
golf glove, his last one. He pulled his driver from the small carry bag and
removed the head cover. It was a Titleist D210 with a Diamana Whiteboard 73
stiff shaft, which kept the ball down in the wind, a must on the difficult
beach course. The sea lay to his right, and the wind was off the sea, so he
played for a draw. He turned his cap backwards and adjusted his sunglasses he
wore on a red cord around his neck. He stepped to the side of the ball, placed
the driver behind the ball, adjusted his foot position, waggled once, and swung
the club. The ball rocketed off the tee and into the blue sky and out over the
water, where it hung for a long suspenseful moment … until the wind carried
it back into the middle of the fairway.