The Case Against William (18 page)

"Frank
… it's your son."

The
desk sergeant sniffed the air like a bird dog on a hunt then eyed the four men
as if they were suspects.

"Smells
like a brewery. You boys been drinking?"

It
was the next afternoon. They had piled into Chico's 4x4 SUV that morning and
driven the two hundred miles to Austin. Four drunks in one car for three and a
half hours. Who would still be sober?

"We're
drunks, Sergeant," Frank said. "So, yeah, we've been
drinking." He gestured at Chico. "Well, he's been smoking
dope."

The
sergeant regarded Chico over his reading glasses. Chico gave him a stoned
grin.

"Little
old for that sort of thing, don't you think,
amigo
? Just 'cause you got
that ponytail, don't make you Willie."

The
sergeant had amused himself. They had parked on Tenth Street in front of the
old courthouse in downtown and walked through the plaza and a gauntlet of cameras
with logos not of news networks but of cable sports channels; consequently, a
carnival atmosphere prevailed on the plaza. They did not appear important in
their beach attire, so their presence warranted no media attention. They now
stood at the public reception desk inside the Travis County Jail; the sergeant
stood on the other side. His nametag read "Sgt. Murphy." His red
Irish face said he was no stranger to alcoholic beverages.

"Just
the lawyer."

Frank
turned to Dwayne (clamping an unlit cigar in his teeth), Chuck (holding a
football), and Chico (eating Cheetos) and then back to the sergeant. He tried
to keep a straight face when he said, "They're part of the defense
team."

The
sergeant could not keep a straight face.

"Defense
team? They look like the Beach Boys on their fiftieth reunion tour."

He
had amused himself again.

"Boys,
they were good.
Dead Man's Curve,
I loved that song."

"That
was Jan and Dean," Frank said, "not the Boys."

"Really?"
The sergeant grunted. "Aw, hell, it's Sunday, no one's here. All
right."

He
waved them all back but gestured at Chuck's football and shook his head.

"He
won't sign it. Asked him to sign a ball for my boy, promised I wouldn't put it
on eBay—he told me to drop dead." Back to Frank: "Your son, he's a
bit of a jerk, but he is a hell of a football player."

"White
boy gonna play football for the Huntsville Inmates 'stead of the Dallas
Cowboys. Gonna score license plates instead of touchdowns. Gonna get paid two
dollars an hour instead of two hundred million. Gonna—"

"Kick
your ass if you don't shut the fuck up."

The
other guests of the Travis County Jail fell silent. The black dude with the
big mouth looked as if someone had told him his father was white.

"What
… what you say?"

"You're
stupid. Are you deaf too?"

William
stood in one corner of the large holding cell. The black dude sat in the
opposite corner with his homeboys. He pushed himself up off the concrete floor
and sauntered over with his pimp roll. He was lean and muscular, a street
thug. William was bigger, stronger, and younger.

"What
you say?"

"I
said, I'm gonna kick your ass if you don't shut the fuck up."

"You
a tough white boy, is that it?"

"Tough
enough to kick your black ass, homey."

"
Homey?
"

The dude grinned. But not because he thought William's comment was
funny. William had lived with black guys from the 'hood the last four
years—like all major college football powerhouses, UT recruited black players
from the inner cities of Houston and Dallas because they were the ticket to
bowl game revenues—so he knew every move in the 'hood book. There were no
rules on the street; there were only predators and prey. The dude's first move
would be to fake the grin and then laugh—

He
laughed.

—and
then he would turn back to his bros and turn his palms up, as if saying, What
am I supposed to do with this silly-ass white boy?—

He
turned back to the other black inmates and turned his palms up.

—which
move he hoped would lure William into a false sense of security, which security
would be brutally violated when he suddenly whipped around and sucker punched
the silly-ass white boy. Sure enough, the dude's right fist clenched behind
him and his shoulders started rotating toward William and his fist came up and
around and his head spun around and—

William
drove his huge fist into the dude's chin so hard he heard the jaw cartilage
crack just as he had heard so many knee cartilages crack on the football
field. The dude was out before his body hit the floor. William stared at the
dude's bros.

"Anyone
else want to fuck with me?"

"William
Tucker!" the jail guard shouted. "Your lawyer's here."

Sitting
in the chair on the visitor's side of the Plexiglas partition in the interview
room, Frank felt a distinct sense of
deja vu
. As if he had been there
before. His brain fought through the fog of whiskey and found the memory. He
had been there before. In this same cubicle. Facing Bradley Todd.

But
it wasn't the same. Bradley Todd was not his son.

Frank
hadn't spoken to or seen his son in two years, except on the old television.
When the guard escorted an inmate wearing a green-and-white striped uniform
into the interview room, Frank almost didn't recognize his son. At twenty, he
had been a boy, albeit a big boy, lean and sinewy; at twenty-two he was an
action-figure, with a massive chest, broad shoulders, and thick arms with veins
that looked like blue cords. His bulky body stretched the uniform to the
breaking point and filled the space in the cubicle on his side of the glass.
He remained standing. Frank wanted desperately to embrace his son, but more
than the one inch of glass separated father and son. William spoke, but Frank
couldn't hear him. He picked up the phone on his side and pointed to the phone
on his son's side. William put the phone to his face and spoke again.

"This
is bullshit! I didn't kill anyone! I didn't rape anyone! These fucking
idiots got the wrong guy! I'm innocent!"

Frank
had come to the jail as a father even though he hadn't been much of a father to
his son since he had started drinking six years before; and he likely wouldn't
be his son's lawyer because his license was suspended. The father in him knew
that his son could never have committed such violent acts against a girl; but
the lawyer in him wanted to ask that question—"Did you do it?"—so he
felt a sense of relief to hear his son say those two words:
I'm innocent
.
Those words led in one direction—dismissal of the charges before trial or
acquittal at trial—while
I'm guilty
would have led in another
direction—a plea and prison.

"They
act like they don't know who the hell I am! I can't believe they made me stay
here overnight—they didn't even give me a private room!"

As
if he were on a road trip with the team instead of in the county jail.

"Get
me the fuck out of here!"

Not
"Hi, Dad. Good to see you after two years." But perhaps that was
expecting too much. His son was in jail charged with rape and murder. He was
breathing hard. Blood spotted the knuckles on his right hand.

"What
happened?"

"Fight.
Back in the cellblock."

"You
okay?"

"This
time. Next time I'll have to fight five brothers."

William
dropped the phone and paced the cubicle; he was hyped up on adrenaline and
anger. Frank gave him time to calm. After a few minutes, William's
respiration noticeably eased; he sat down hard in the chair on his side and
blew out a big breath. The adrenaline resided, and his big body calmed. Frank
leaned forward in his chair, but his son leaned back, as if trying to escape.
But there was nowhere to go. He regarded Frank a long moment then picked up
the phone.

"You
look old."

"Being
a drunk will do that."

"Do
what?" Chuck said.

The
guys stood behind Frank; they could only hear Frank's side of his conversation
with William.

"Make
you look old."

Chuck
turned to Chico. "Do I look old?"

Chico
shook his head. "Just ugly."

Frank's
son now regarded Dwayne, Chuck, and Chico.

"Who
are they?"

"Your
defense team."

"Are
they drunks, too?"

"They
are."

"Get
me out of here."

The
Austin newspaper said his son was being held on a $5 million bail. His father
was a broke drunk, but his mother's new husband was a sober billionaire.

"I'll
try."

"They
said I killed a girl. A Tech cheerleader. Two years ago."

The
newspaper story said a Texas Tech cheerleader had been murdered after UT's game
against Tech in Austin, the same game two years before when Frank had shown up
drunk and embarrassed his son. His son had played the worst game of his
career; then he had banished his father from his life.

"I'm
innocent."

"I
know," Frank the father said.

Over
two hundred thousand males were behind bars in the state of Texas. Did their
fathers know they were innocent, too? Bradley Todd's father had known his son
was innocent. But he wasn't. Frank held the front page of the newspaper with
the image of the dead girl up to the Plexiglas. Her name was Dee Dee Dunston.

"Did
you know her?" Frank the lawyer asked.

His
son leaned in and studied the image. He slowly shook his head.

"You
don't recognize her?"

"No.
I've never seen her before in my life. I swear."

"Did
he know her?" Dwayne said.

"No.
Says he's never seen her before." Back to the phone and William:
"The newspaper said the police recovered your DNA from her
body."

"
How?
I don't know her, I never met her, I didn't have sex with her. How could they
get my DNA?"

From
his saliva, sweat, semen, secretions, skin …

"Why
was your DNA in the database?"

"A
month ago, a bunch of us were partying over on Sixth Street, a cop got mouthy
with us, we got mouthy with him. He said he was going to arrest us for public
intoxication, I told him to fuck off. So he arrested me for resisting arrest.
Hauled me down here. Soon as they found out who I was, I signed a few autographs,
took a few photos, they let me go. But they did a cheek swab."

Anyone
arrested in Texas for a serious crime—and resisting arrest qualified—will have
his or her DNA collected and input into the national database.

"Why'd
they have his DNA?" Dwayne said.

"Arrested.
Public intoxication and resisting arrest."

Dwayne
grunted. "That'll do it."

Back
to William: "So they input your DNA, and the database matched it to an unsolved
murder."

"That's
what the cops said. "

"William,
tell me everything you did that day."

His
son shook his head. "I can't."

"Son,
everything you tell me is confidential. I'm not just your father, I'm your
lawyer. Sort of. And they're working for me, so the privilege applies to
them as well."

"Are
we getting paid?" Chuck asked.

"No,"
William said. "I mean, I can't remember what happened."

"Why
not?"

"I
don't remember anything from that day. Concussion. The whole day is
gone."

"You
don't remember anything?"

"No."
He shrugged. "Every time I've had a concussion, that day, most of the
next week, it's just a black hole."

"He
had amnesia?" Chico asked.

"Concussion,"
Frank said.

"I
had amnesia after my concussions," Chuck said. "Still got it."

"He's
going with an amnesia defense?" Dwayne said. "That ain't gonna
fly."

Back
to his son: "How many concussions have you had?"

"Four
or five. Six. Maybe seven."

"Seven
concussions? And they still let you play?"

"I
don't tell the coaches."

"Why
not?"

"They
won't let me play."

"Maybe
you should stop playing."

"Maybe
I should stop breathing. I'm a football player. That's who I am. What would
I be if I stopped playing?"

"My
son."

"That
won't get me a hundred-million-dollar guaranteed contract."

It
would not. Being Frank Tucker's son was not worth much in this world. Only
slightly more than being Frank Tucker.

"What
was your normal schedule for a game day?"

"That
was a day game, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

Frank
had been drunk, but he did not suffer a concussion. He remembered that game
day.

"I
usually get up around eight, eat breakfast in the athletes' dining hall, walk
over to the stadium."

Frank
had woken at ten that morning, hung over at the hotel. Not the five-star
Driskill Hotel in downtown Austin, but a cheap hotel fronting the interstate
not far from the UT stadium. He had passed out the night before and slept like
a baby; the whiskey drowned out the traffic noise. He had his usual breakfast
of vodka and orange juice—not too much orange juice—then a liquid brunch and an
early liquid lunch. He was too drunk to drive, so he walked over to the
stadium. His son had given him a sideline pass—the star quarterback could do
that for his father—so Frank Tucker received VIP treatment just like Matthew
McConaughey and other UT alumni who had achieved celebrity status. By the time
he entered the stadium, Frank Tucker was stumbling drunk. But he still thought
his son would be happy to see his dad on the sideline. When you're a drunk,
you think things like that.

"Then
what?"

"Pre-game
stuff. The trainer tapes my ankles, I suit up but no pads, go out onto the
field and warm up. Stretching, jogging, passing drills. That was the game you
came to, wasn't it?"