The Case Against William (19 page)

It
was.

Frank
Tucker stumbled down the sideline past the TV cameras and reporters and
celebrities and cheerleaders and into the team's equipment. He fell to the
turf as if he had been tackled. The next thing he knew, his son was helping
him up and placing him in the care of a guy named Bennie. He took Frank
upstairs to a suite and got him a hamburger and coffee. A lot of coffee.
Frank had sobered up by the fourth quarter when William suffered a brutal
helmet-to-helmet hit. And a concussion.

"Worst
game of my career. Five interceptions."

"You
remember?"

"Read
about it. Couldn't bear to watch the film. Cost me the Heisman."

"After
the game, they took you to the hospital. You remember that?"

William
shook his head. "Coach said they gave me a brain MRI, stitched
up my elbow."

"What
happened after I left?"

After
his son had told him to leave and stay the hell out of his life. After he had
said his father was a fucking loser. The truth hurts.

"Coach
Bruce said he got me some dinner, took me back to the dorm, put me to
bed."

"Did
you stay there all night?"

"Must not have. Guess the guys decided I needed some fresh
air."

"What
guys?"

"Back
then, would've been Cowboy and Red."

"They're
your best friends?"

"They're
the guys."

"Who's
your best friend?"

He
pondered a moment.

"Coach
Bruce, I guess."

"You
don't have a steady girlfriend?"

"You
mean, like, someone I'd take home to meet my … sister?"

"Like
that."

"No.
Those girls don't groupie for athletes. And I don't have time for commitments
in my life, except football. No distractions, focus on football. That's the
ticket to the NFL."

"What
about life?"

"Football
is my life."

And
perhaps it should be at twenty-two.

"Where
did Cowboy and Red take you?"

"Sixth
Street, I'm sure."

"Did
you drink?"

"I'm
sure."

"At
the Dizzy Rooster?"

The
victim's body had been discovered in the alley behind that bar.

His son shrugged. "We go there a lot. But I don't remember
if we went there that night."

"Was
he there?" Dwayne said.

"Doesn't
remember."

"That
ain't gonna fly."

Back
to William. "You don't remember anything?"

"When
you get a concussion, you're in a fog for days, like a dream you can't remember
when you wake up."

"How
can you go to a bar in that condition?"

"Hell,
I've played entire games in that condition. Your body just goes on
autopilot."

"Did
you meet this girl?"

"I
told you, I've never seen that girl before in my life."

"Did
you meet other girls?"

He
shrugged again. "I'm sure. I'm William Tucker. I always meet girls. Or
they meet me."

Just
as a matter of fact.

"Did
you have sex with a girl that night?"

"I
don't remember."

"Because
of the concussion?"

"Because
there's been too many girls on too many nights. Even without the concussion, I
couldn't remember a girl from two years ago."

"You
just go into a bar and pick up a girl and have sex?"

"Wow,"
Chuck said from behind.

"They pick me up."

"Do
you always wear a condom?"

William
shook his head. "I never wear a condom. No one does."

"He
doesn't wear rubbers?" Chico said. "Man, that's
loco
."

"I
don't wear condoms," Chuck said.

"Yeah,
but you can't catch nothing from your hand."

"True."

"AIDS,
STDs, pregnancy," Frank said to his son, "any of that mean
anything?"

"Not
really. But I went to bed early that night. The guys took me back to the
dorm."

"You
were back in your dorm? What time?"

The
newspaper said the girl had been killed between midnight and two
A.M.

"Around
midnight."

"You
remember that?"

"The
guys told me."

"What
time?" Dwayne asked.

"Midnight."

"Convenient.
He don't remember nothing except he was in his dorm when the crime was
committed."

"Get
me out of here," his son said. "I've got a game Saturday."

Frank
didn't have the heart to tell his son that his season was over.

"Your
bond is five million. I'll try to get it reduced, but—"

"Call
Mom. She's in Europe with Dale. He's a billionaire. Tell her I need money
for bail and to hire a lawyer."

Frank
Tucker used to be the lawyer every accused wanted to hire.

"You
have her number?"

"It's
on my cell phone. In my dorm room. Jester West, room five-twenty-one."

"The
cops probably took your phone when they searched your room."

"They
searched my room?"

"Standard police procedure. Is there anything you wouldn't
want them to find?"

His
son shrugged. "No."

Father
and son regarded each other across six feet of Plexiglas-partitioned space. A
father always sees the twelve-year-old boy who thought he was the best dad in
the whole world; he never sees the twenty-two-year-old man who thinks his dad
is a loser. A man can't handle that truth. Frank reached out and placed the
palm of his right hand flat against the glass then waited for his son to match
hands, a jailhouse high-five. And waited. His son stared at his father's hand
then at his father. He stood.

"Frank,
get me the fuck out of here."

"
Frank?
"

"What
do you want me to call you—
Dad
?"

His
son hung up the phone and turned his back on his dad. He walked out of the
inmates' side of the interview room. The four men on the visitor's side
remained quiet for a long awkward moment until the silence was broken by Dwayne's
voice.

"Not
the kind of kid you like right off, is he?"

"So,
Frank, you get over that drinking thing?"

"No."

He
had drunk his daily protein-and-vodka breakfast shake just to get the day
going, beer on the drive up from the beach, and then a quick shot of whiskey
before facing the Travis County District Attorney. The last time the two men
had been in the same room, it was a courtroom upstairs in this same building
when the not-guilty verdict had been read in Bradley Todd's first trial. Frank
had won, but the district attorney had been right. He didn't figure his
bitter, lifelong legal rival would fail to remind him of that fact. Hence, a
shot before meeting the D.A.

Dick
Dorkin sat behind a massive wood desk in his office on the first floor of the
Blackwell-Thurman Criminal Justice Center at Eleventh and San Antonio Street;
the office befit the most powerful politician in Travis County, Texas. He wore
a suit and tie, but not because he had just come from church that Sunday.
Frank occupied a visitor's chair across from him. The guys occupied the sofa
along the wall behind Frank. After he had left his son at the jail, Frank had
asked the desk sergeant for the homicide detective in charge of the case. But
the sergeant informed him that the case had already been referred to the
district attorney's office. The D.A. had already taken the case to the grand
jury. And William Tucker had already been indicted for rape and capital
murder.

"Well,
at least you got a nice tan, lying on the beach."

Frank
was not dressed in a suit and tie, but in jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was
ragged and too long for a lawyer. His sunglasses hung on a cord around his
neck. He wore no wedding ring. He did have a nice tan.

"I've
dealt with these prima donna athletes before, Frank, too many times, as you
well know. They think playing football or basketball means they don't have to
play by any other rulebook. But there's no exemption for star athletes in the
penal code. Your son's had some run-ins with the law before—public
intoxication and resisting arrest, DUI, solicitation—"

"Solicitation?"

The
D.A. shrugged. "Coeds moonlighting on Sixth Street."

"Coeds?
Like at the Chicken Ranch?"

Back
in the seventies, rumor had it that the infamous Chicken Ranch whorehouse in La
Grange sixty miles southeast of Austin employed UT coeds; it made for a good
Broadway musical, but no one actually believed the rumors. Apparently those
rumors had come home to Sixth Street.

"—but
he played the star card every time. Signed a few autographs, took some photos,
and the cops released him. A Heisman Trophy will do that for being drunk and
stupid, even resisting arrest. But not for rape and murder."

"I
just came from the jail. William swears that he's never seen the victim, never
met her, never had sex with her."

"Defendants
lie, Frank. As you are well aware."

Frank
knew Dick Dorkin would wield the Bradley Todd case like a sledgehammer.

"And
that he was back in his dorm by midnight, before the time of death."

"Careful
what you think you know, Frank."

As
if he knew something.

"How'd
you get his DNA if he didn't have sex with the victim?"

"We
didn't get his semen. We got his blood."

"
Blood?
On her clothes?"

"On
her skin. She fought him, hard enough to bring blood. Traces were found on
her arms and thighs. DNA doesn't lie. People do. He's guilty, Frank."

"His
blood doesn't prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt."

"Tell
that to the jury. And then explain how his blood got onto her body. Only one
way: direct physical contact. As in forcible rape. And then murder by
strangulation."

The
D.A. had come in on a Sunday for a news conference that afternoon; hence, the
media throng in the plaza. The circus outside played out on a flat-screen TV
mounted to the wall. William Tucker's arrest for rape and murder constituted
news. National news. Cases like this didn't come along often, so a politician
couldn't afford to squander his moment in the spotlight. You never wanted to
get between an ambitious politician and a news camera.

"No
semen but he raped her?"

"Maybe
he wore a condom."

"How
many rapists wear condoms?"

"Ask
your son."

"He
said he doesn't use condoms."

"Oh.
Okay. Then I'll dismiss the case."

"Wow,
that was easy."

Chuck's
voice from the sofa.

"He
don't mean it," Dwayne said. "It's called sarcasm."

"Ohh."

The
D.A. chuckled. "Where'd you find these guys, Frank? Alcoholics
Anonymous?"

"We
don't believe in that," Chico said.

"Being
an alcoholic?"

"Being
anonymous."

Which
elicited another chuckle from the district attorney.

"Comedians."
He frowned and pointed a finger at Chuck. "Why does he have a
football?"

Frank
could only offer a lame shrug before he asked, "No witnesses?"

"The
only witness is dead."

"Did
they recover his skin tissue under her fingernails?"

"Nope."

"Saliva?"

The
D.A. shook his head.

"All
you have is his blood?"

"
All?
That blood is more than enough to convict your son."

The
D.A. stared at Frank as he processed that information. William's blood on the
victim, but not his semen inside her.

"I'll
consider a plea offer," the D.A. said. "Life in prison."

"He's
innocent. We'll take it to a jury."

The
D.A. picked up a remote and pointed it at the TV and the circus outside. The
volume came on. A middle-aged woman in a crowd of middle-aged women was being
interviewed.

"I watched every episode of the Casey Anthony trial."

"
Episode?
"
the reporter said.

"But
this show isn't going to be on TV, so we came down to the studio."

"
Show?
Studio?
You do understand that this is a murder case?"

"Oh,
yes. Those are the best shows."

The
D.A. muted the volume and turned to Frank.

"There's
your jury pool, Frank. You want to put your son's life in her hands?"

No.
He did not.

"Can
we get into his dorm room?"

"We?"
The D.A gestured at the sofa behind Frank. "You and the Three Stooges
going to investigate the case?"

"The
defense team."

"That's
funny," the D.A. said.

"What
about the dorm, Dick?"

"Sure,
why not? Knock yourself out. The detectives searched his room, and it's not a
crime scene. And you're his father." He paused. "Are you his
lawyer?"

"He's
going to hire a lawyer."

The
D.A. nodded almost as if he were embarrassed for Frank. But Frank knew he was
not.

"Must
be tough, even your own son doesn't want you to represent him."

"Will
you agree to a reduction of his bail?"

"He's
accused of a brutal rape and murder, and his DNA was on the victim. I
couldn't reduce bail for my own son, if I had a son. And I'm up for
reelection. My Republican opponent would crucify me. And what if he raped and
killed another girl, like Bradley Todd?"

"Five
million is unreasonable bail."

"Capital
murder, he's lucky to get bail."

"I'll
take it to the judge."

"
You?
You mean, William's lawyer? Well, good luck with that. Judge Rooney's got the
case, and he's up for reelection, too. He can't let an accused rapist and
murderer back on the street—he's got to show he's tough on crime, even in
Austin."

Austin
was the blue hole in the red Texas donut. But even liberals feared violent
crime.

"And
Harold won't forget that he let Bradley Todd out on bail because you were his
lawyer and as we all knew, you only represented innocent people. You made him
look like a fool, Frank."