The Case Against William (2 page)

An
American football field is one hundred twenty yards long, including the two end
zones, and fifty-three and one-third yards wide. The line of scrimmage was UT's
own forty-six yard line. William now arrived at the right sideline of his
forty-yard line; D-Quan raced down the left sideline. A pass from William's
position all the way across the field to the back pylon in the end zone would
require the ball travel eighty-three yards in the air. A football is a pointed
prolate spheroid eleven inches long with a twenty-two-inch circumference at its
midpoint; it weighs almost one pound. But it's not like throwing a one-pound
rock. A football is designed to spiral at approximately six hundred
revolutions per minute when thrown, thus creating an aerodynamic reduction in
air drag; you can throw a spiral farther, faster, and more accurately. To
throw a football eighty-three yards accurately, you must release it at exactly
a forty-five-degree angle to the ground and at a velocity of exactly sixty-five
miles per hour. Perhaps three quarterbacks in the country—college or pro—could
make that throw, and only one with the season on the line. William Tucker
planted his right foot, gripped the leather with his right hand, and in one
powerful yet fluid movement raised the ball to his right ear, stepped forward
with his left foot, rotated his upper body hard, and flung the football with
his textbook throwing motion. The ball came off his hand cleanly, and he knew
instantly that he had made the perfect throw. The ball flew in a tight spiral
on a high arc, rising into the blue sky until it seemed to soar above the
stadium … the stadium fell silent as ninety thousand fans held their collective
breath … William's eyes dropped to the field … D-Quan's long legs
crossed the five-yard-line … the free safety looked back for the ball …
and realized his mistake … as D-Quan blew past him into the end zone …
and extended his hands … into which the ball dropped.

Touchdown.

All
across the state of Texas, Longhorn fans jumped for joy, screaming and shouting
and spewing beer before their seventy-inch Vizios with the vicarious thrill of
victory; all across the state of Oklahoma, Sooner fans fell to the floor,
crying like babies and groaning with the vicarious agony of defeat. They lived
and died their teams' wins and losses. Football in America. There was nothing
else like it in the world. Teammates and coaches and cheerleaders and UT
students stormed onto the field and mobbed William Tucker and the other
players, whooping and hollering with their heroes as if they were victorious
gladiators. Perhaps they were. Heroes and gladiators. Romans had bet on
gladiators and Americans bet on football games. In Vegas, winners tallied
their winnings and losers their losses, just as the TV network tallied its
Nielsen ratings and commercial revenue and the athletic directors of the two
universities their respective takes from the game. There was much money to be
made from college football. For everyone except the players. They had to play
college ball for free for at least two years; if they proved that they could
play at that level, they were invited—via the NFL draft—to play for pay at the next
level. The highest level of competitive football in America. The National
Football League.

William
Tucker had proven himself again that day. He was ready for the next level.
His days of playing for free would soon be over. He would be a very rich young
man. All his dreams would come true.

But
that day was still a few months away. So he did not think about it. He had
learned to stay in the present, to execute this play and not worry about the
last play or the next play, and to never look ahead to the next game. So he
reveled in the present. He threw his arms into the air and screamed. He
turned in a circle in the center of the field and soaked up the fans'
adoration, as if he had just saved the planet from a zombie invasion like in
that movie. But he had achieved something far more admirable in America: he
had won a big college football game. He embraced the moment—and two buxom
blonde cheerleaders sidling close. One on either side, he leaned down and
reached under their firm bottoms and lifted them into the air as if they
weighed nothing. They sat in his arms and kissed his cheeks. Photographers
snapped their picture, which would make every newspaper, cable sports channel,
and sports blog in America tomorrow. To the victor go the spoils—and the
girls. Oh, the girls. So many girls and so little time.

The
life of a college football hero.

The
big bass drums of the Longhorn marching band pounded like artillery explosions
and reverberated through his body; the two girls' clung tight, and he inhaled
their scent like a narcotic that ignited his manly senses. They were
intoxicating. The noise was deafening. The moment was all about William. He
started to carry the two cheerleaders off the field when the on-the-field
television crew pushed close with a camera. He figured the two girls might
distract from his hero shot on national television, so he lowered them to the
turf then faced the camera. Two state troopers stood guard in case a
disappointed Oklahoma fan decided to take out his frustrations on William on
national television. The female reporter stuck a microphone in his face and yelled
over the chaos.

"William,
unbelievable game. You threw for four touchdowns and ran for two more. You're
a lock for the Heisman and on your way to the national championship. How do
you feel?"

How
do I feel?

Like every star athlete, William Tucker had suffered
many such stupid questions; it came with the territory. Sports reporters were
the guys—and girls—who couldn't make it as weather reporters. But he had been
coached well by his media consultant. He swept his curly blond hair from his
sweaty face and flashed his white teeth. He had given TV interviews since he
was sixteen. As they say in Texas, this wasn't his first rodeo.

"I
feel blessed. But it's not about me. It's about my coaches, my teammates, and
our fans. They deserve all the credit. And the Good Lord."

He
looked up and pointed his index fingers to the sky, as if to thank God. As if
God had made that throw. As if God could give a shit about a football game,
particularly a college game.

"He
gave us this great victory."

Straight
out of Interviews 101. It was corny, it was dumb, and it was a lie, but it's
what the fans wanted to hear, it's what the networks wanted the stars to say
after the game, and most importantly, it's the image sponsors wanted their
athletes to project when endorsing their products, like tearing up during the
national anthem before the game when the cameras were on you. Wholesome.
Clean-cut. God bless America. On the field, it's all about winning; off the
field, it's all about image. So William Tucker sealed the deal with his
country-boy (even though he had grown up in Houston) "aw shucks"
smile for all of America then turned away and threw his arms around the student
body—or at least the bodies of the two cheerleaders; but he heard the
reporter's final words to the game announcer up in the booth and her national
audience across the U.S. of A.

"You
know, Kenny, I've met and interviewed a lot of star college football players
over the last five seasons. To be quite honest, all too many are the kind of
prima donna, I'm-entitled-to-everything, I've-got-the-world-on-a-leash kind of
athletes we hate. Who we secretly hope fail. Who all too often end up in
trouble with the law because they think they're above the law. William Tucker
is not that kind of athlete. Not only is William Tucker the best college football
player in America today, he is also one of the finest young men in collegiate
sports today. He's a role model for boys all across America. He's the kind of
young man every father hopes his daughter brings home. He's almost too good to
be true."

"Get
dressed and get out."

"William,
I'm sorry, I'm just not comfortable having sex this fast."

"Get
out." He grabbed his cell phone and started scrolling through the
photos. "I can have a sub here in five minutes."

"We
could date a while, get to know each other, then maybe—"

He
laughed. "
Date?
I don't think so. Come on, hit the road, honey."

"Will
you call me?"

He
laughed again. "What world are you living in? I'm William Tucker."

The
team had arrived back in Austin at nine, and he was in bed with one of the
buxom cheerleaders by ten. It was that easy. If you were William Tucker.

"Okay.
I'll do it."

He
tossed the phone onto the recliner.

"Roll
over."

"Aren't
you going to put on a condom?"

"You
got AIDS?"

"No."

"Then
I don't need a condom."

"But
I'm not on the pill. What if I get pregnant?"

"You
never heard of abortions?"

Dumb
cheerleaders. He climbed on top of what's-her-name and started to push into
her when someone banged hard on his dorm door.

"William
Tucker!"

"Go
away. I'm busy."

"Police!
Open the door!"

"Go—away!"

"If
you don't open the door, we're gonna break it down!"

"If
you don't go away, I'm gonna—"

The
door broke off its hinges and crashed into the room. Four cops in uniforms
stood in the doorway. Two pointed guns at William. He stood naked and
regarded the cops as if they were water boys.

"You
know who the hell I am?"

"William
Tucker, you're under arrest."

"
For
what?
"

"Rape—"

He
pointed at what's-her-name scrambling to cover her naked body.

"She's
eighteen. I checked her school ID."

"—and
murder."

Handcuffs
held his thick arms tight behind his back. He had been arrested before—three
times—and each time he had been quickly released once they had discovered who
the hell he was. The handcuffs had come off, he had signed a few autographs
and taken a few photos with star-struck cops, and he was out the door and on
his merry way.

That's
how life worked for William Tucker.

He
fully expected this arrest would be no different. But when the cops opened the
back door of the police cruiser and pulled him out, it was different. Cameras
flashed and loud voices shouted at him. He squinted against the bright lights
and saw that a media gauntlet had formed on the sidewalk leading into the
Travis County Jail in downtown Austin. Nothing the media liked more than
capturing a star athlete being hauled into jail in the middle of the night.
His prior arrests had been for public intoxication, DUI, and solicitation; in
Austin, such offenses merited only a brief and humorous mention in the sports
pages. Just athletes being athletes.

But
rape and murder—this arrest would be front-page news and the lead story on
every cable and network newscast. William Tucker, another felon in a football
helmet. His first instinct was to duck his head from the lights and turn away
from the loud voices; but he recalled all the other star athletes he had seen
on television walking the media gauntlet after being arrested—the "perp
walk," as it had become known. They had hidden their faces and looked
like disgraced athletes. Like guilty criminals. His media consultant had even
used those video clips as training tools; she had repeated over and over that
when—not if—he found himself in that situation—even though guilty, a status she
had assumed—he was not to hide his face. He was to hold his head high. He was
to look directly into the cameras. His face was to show the shock and his
voice to express the righteous indignation—the outrage—of an innocent man being
wrongfully accused by the American criminal justice system. Prepping for the
perp walk was now basic media training for American athletes. And so, like an
athlete who falls back on his natural ability in a pressure-packed game
situation, William Tucker fell back on his media training as the two cops grasped
his arms and escorted him on the perp walk.

"William,
did you rape her?" a reporter shouted. "Did you kill her?"

He
pulled the cops to an abrupt stop and stared directly into the bright lights of
the cameras. He tried to infuse his strong masculine voice with just the right
amount of outrage and righteous indignation.

"No.
I didn't rape anyone. I didn't kill anyone. They arrested the wrong man. I'm
innocent."

His
media consultant would be proud. She had said he was a natural in front of the
cameras, said he would make a fortune in endorsements. The cops yanked his
arms hard and pulled him inside the jail. The doors shut out the bright lights
and loud voices. It was suddenly quiet. Faces peeked up at him and a few cell
phones clicked photos as the cops led him down a corridor and into an interview
room then pushed him down into a chair in front of a table. The younger cop
cuffed William's left ankle to a steel ring embedded in the concrete floor then
removed the cuffs from his hands. William rubbed his wrists to restart the
blood flow.

"Get
me a Gatorade," he said to the younger cop. "Orange."

The
cop gave him a look then shook his head and left the room. Like most star
athletes, he viewed the police more as personal bodyguards than peace officers
sworn to uphold the law. Their job was to serve and protect
him
, not
uphold the law
against
him.

"What's
his problem?" he said to the older cop.

"You
beat Oklahoma this afternoon and get arrested for rape and murder the same night,"
the older cop said. "That's a fast fall, stud. By the way, that was a hell
of a throw. Say, would you autograph a football for my son? You're his
hero."

"Drop
dead. You know how much a football signed by William Tucker is worth?"

"I
promise not to put it on eBay."