The Case Against William (20 page)

"Then
you'd better segregate my son from the other inmates or you won't have a
defendant to try—he's already been in one fight—and your opponent will enjoy
asking you why a suspect was killed in jail."

The
D.A. pondered the political ramifications then nodded.

"All
right. I'll call over to the jail, get him transferred to the solitary
cellblock."

"I
want the homicide file."

"I
don't have to give you the file."

"The
lawyer for the accused is entitled to every piece of exculpatory evidence the
state possesses."

"True,
but you're not his lawyer, Frank. You're not even a licensed lawyer at the
moment."

"I'm
his father."

At
forty-five, Dick Dorkin had been a short, pudgy little prick. At fifty-five,
he was a short, even pudgier little prick. But he held the fate of Frank's son's
life in his hands. So Frank tried to mend fences.

"Look,
Dick, I know we've had our differences, but—"

"Our
differences
?" The D.A. laughed. "I hate your fucking guts,
Frank."

"Because
I called you a failed politician? Because of Bradley Todd? Because of the
senator?"

"Because
of Liz."

"
Liz?
What the hell does she have to do with anything?"

"She picked you over me."

"You
knew her back then? When we were in law school?"

He
nodded.

"You
asked her out?"

Another
nod.

"She
turned you down?"

Another
nod. As if he were still shocked by Liz's rejection. Frank almost laughed out
loud. Talk about violating the natural order of men and women. Even as a
young law student, Dick Dorkin had been a two at best in the male rankings, one
being the guy in
Sling Blade
; he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell
of snagging a date with a ten like Elizabeth Barton, UT campus beauty queen.
But there was no accounting for the male ego.

"That's
how this lifelong grudge started, back in law school? Because my ex-wife
rejected you?"

"Ex?"

"She divorced me and married a billionaire oilman."
Frank snorted. "Hell, Dick, I did you a favor. You should be thanking
me. You would've gone broke supporting her."

"How
do you know?"

"Because
I did."

The
D.A. regarded Frank across the wide expanse of wood. After a moment, he
sighed.

"All
right, Frank. But find him a lawyer fast, or the judge is going to appoint a
PD. The arraignment's Tuesday morning at nine."

"I'll
be there."

Frank
stood and walked to the door.

"And
Frank—"

He
turned back.

"—try
to show up sober."

Camera
crews accosted every student-athlete entering the Beauford H. Jester
Center-West dormitory on the University of Texas campus north of downtown
Austin.

"Do
you know William Tucker?"

"You
think he killed the girl?"

"How
did he treat girls on campus?"

Frank,
Dwayne, Chuck, and Chico didn't look like students or athletes, so they were
allowed to pass without being stopped and questioned. They went inside and took
an elevator to the fifth floor; they found William's room. A Hispanic worker
wearing a uniform screwed new door hinges into the doorjamb.

"Looks
like the arrest warrant was executed with a boot," Dwayne said.

William's
door was not sealed off with yellow crime-scene tape but someone apparently
thought he was a criminal:
RAPIST
and
KILLER
had been scrawled
across the door like graffiti.

"So
much for being a campus hero," Chico said.

"Damn,
we didn't have coed dorms when I was at SMU," Chuck said.

Fit
girls wearing skin-tight Spandex short-shorts and leggings bounced past the
four middle-aged men and down the corridor. Chuck, Chico, and Dwayne stared at
their departing backsides, but firm female bottoms could not distract Frank's
mind from his son. The worker allowed them entry after Frank identified
himself and Chico had translated his English into the worker's Spanish. They
stepped inside the room; the worker shut the door behind them. Frank had been
in his son's bedroom at home hundreds of times a year for eighteen years; now
he felt as if he were entering a stranger's home. He found the wall switch and
flipped on the lights; they were greeted by a huge color blowup of William
Tucker on the opposite wall. It was an action shot of number twelve throwing a
pass during a game. He was literally bigger than life. More action photos of
his son adorned the other walls.

"Boy
likes to look at himself, don't he?" Dwayne said.

"What
are we looking for?" Chico said.

"Cell
phone," Frank said. "And evidence."

"Of
what?"

"Innocence."

They
spread out to search the room. Chico took the desk, Chuck the dresser, and
Dwayne the closet. The police had already conducted a cursory search; contents
of drawers and boxes had been tossed and left in disarray. But the crime had
been committed two years before and not in this room, so they had left it as
they found it. And they already had all the evidence necessary to convict
William Tucker: his blood from the victim's body. Frank had learned that cops
stopped searching when they had their man. Or thought they did.

"Wow,"
Chuck said.

He
held up a tiny black thong in one hand and a tiny red one in the other.

"He's
got a bunch of these. Wonder why?"

"They're like notches on a gunslinger's six-shooter,"
Chico said. "Laptop."

"They
put notches on laptops?"

"Man,
you had one too many concussions. I
found
his laptop."

"Ohh."

"The
cops didn't take his laptop?" Frank asked.

"Apparently
not."

Chuck
held up a football. "Frank, can I have this?"

"You
want his football?"

"He
signed it."

"You
want a football signed by my son?"

"We
could sell it on eBay," Chico said. "Make some serious money."

"Really?"

"You
bet. A football signed by a famous athlete and now he's accused of murder … sorry." He hesitated. "I've sold lots of stuff on eBay, and I
didn't even own most of it. That ball, it's worth its weight in gold."

Frank
heard voices speaking in Spanish outside—the worker and a female—and the door
opened on a middle-aged Hispanic woman dressed like a maid, as if the dorm were
a high-end hotel. She froze at the sight of the four men rummaging through the
drawers and closet.

"It's
okay," Frank said. "I'm William Tucker's father."

Her
expression remained unchanged. Chico stepped over and spoke to her in
Spanish. She answered.

"What'd
she say?"

"Said
she cleans his room. They got cleaning and laundry service. The
athletes."

"Ask
her if she knows anything about William."

Chico
again spoke to her in Spanish. He frowned.

"What?"

"Uh,
she said she don't like him."

"Something
of a consensus is building," Dwayne said.

"Why
not?" Frank asked.

Chico
spoke to her in Spanish, and she spoke back. Then she left and the worker shut
the door.

"Says
he's an animal, he's a slob, and he treats her like his personal maid. Says
she's gonna come back later."

"Anyone
want a beer?" Dwayne said. "Or a Red Bull?"

He
had squatted down and opened the small refrigerator lodged under the desk. It
was filled with cans of Coors and Red Bull. He popped the top on a Coors.

"Don't
mind if I do," Chuck said. "Beer."

"Ditto,"
Chico said.

"Might
help my headache," Frank said.

Dwayne
tossed cans of Coors to the defense team. They resumed the search. Except
Chuck, who plopped down into William's recliner that fronted a flat screen on
the wall and pointed a remote at the screen as if this were any other Sunday
afternoon to be spent watching pro football. The television flashed to life.

"Man,
he's got the premium subscription, every sports channel in the country."

Chuck
clicked through the NFL games, pausing to watch a bit of each game.

"Cowboys
versus the Giants … Romo's thrown two interceptions in the first half …
Cowboys got a billion-dollar stadium and a hundred-dollar quarterback. But
when William's playing quarterback for them, they're gonna—"

Dwayne
threw a beer can at Chuck.

"
What?
"
He realized his error. "Oh. Sorry."

"Cell
phone," Chico said.

"The
cops left his phone, too?" Dwayne said. "Man, when I executed a
search warrant, I took everything that wasn't nailed down, just in case."

"Check
out the phone," Frank said.

Chico
did not need an invitation. He was already tapping on buttons and running
his fingers down the screen.

"His
photos look like a
Playboy
magazine. Lots of naked girls.
Sexting."

"Always
wanted to try that," Chuck said.

"Please
don't," Dwayne said.

"Chico,
look through his contact list," Frank said.

"Who
am I looking for?"

"My
ex-wife."

"Got
a speed dial for 'Mom.' "

"That
would be her."

Chico
handed the phone to Frank. He pushed the call button and waited for it to ring
through. But it went to voicemail. He didn't leave a message. Instead he
checked the contact list again and found a number for "Home." After
three rings, a familiar voice came across.

"Joiner
residence."

"Lupe?"

"
Mr.
Tucker?
Oh, my God, I thought you were dead."

"Just
drunk. Lupe, can you get Liz?"

"Mrs.
Tucker … I mean, Mrs. Joiner, she's in Poland."

"Poland?
Why?"

"With
Mr. Joiner. A business trip."

"Do
you have a number? I need to talk to her."

"About
William? I saw it on TV."

"Yes.
About William."

"Let
me find their hotel number."

The
line went silent, so Frank turned his attention back to the search of his son's
room. Dwayne was experienced in such matters; he was conducting a thorough
search.

"You
find any drugs?" Frank asked.

"Nope."

"Alcohol?
Other than the beer?"

"Nope."

"Performance
enhancers?"

"Nope.
You thinking 'roid rage?"

"Always
a possibility with an athlete. If Lance was dirty, anyone might be."

"His
shelf looks like a health food store, but just vitamins and protein bars and
protein mix, stuff like that. No PEDs and no condoms."

Lupe
came back on the line and gave him the number for the Mamaison Hotel Le Regina
in Warsaw where Frank's ex-wife and her replacement husband were staying.
Frank thanked Lupe then disconnected her and dialed the overseas number. He
figured his son would soon be rich enough to pay the charge … or he would
be in prison and the carrier would have to eat the charge. While waiting for
the call to go through, he admonished himself for allowing that thought entry
into his mind. The hotel clerk answered in Polish.

"Do
you speak English?" Frank asked.

"Yes,
sir, I do."

"Elizabeth
Tucker's … Elizabeth Joiner's room, please."

"One
moment. Yes, here it is. I will connect you."

His
wife answered after a few rings.

"Hello."

"It's
me, Liz."

"
Frank?
What … why?"

"You
haven't seen the news?"

"What
news?"

She had not heard about William. The Polish people apparently did
not care about American football players who had been accused of rape and
murder. Frank gave her the bad news.

"My
God. His blood was on her? Frank, you don't think …?"

"No."

"What
are you going to do?"

"First
thing is to get him out of jail. He needs money for bail."

He
did not need to add, "And I'm broke."

"How
much?" she asked.

"Five
million. And a million more for a lawyer."

"You're
a lawyer."

"A
lawyer whose license isn't suspended."

Six
years before, Frank Tucker could have secured the bail money and saved his son
himself. Now he was asking his ex-wife to ask her new husband for six million
dollars to save his son. Their son. Frank had never been Liz's Prince
Charming; he had been her provider. He was to give her all the things she
wanted in life. When he could no longer provide her material needs, she found
someone else who could. He had been angry at first—twenty-four years of
providing faithfully then she had dumped him after only two years of being a
drunk—but now he actually felt good about her decision. Her billionaire
husband could afford their son's bail and legal fees.

"Lawyers
charge a million dollars?"

"Justice
doesn't come cheap. It's going to be a high-profile trial. A media circus.
Only a few lawyers in the country are up to that sort of trial. And proving
his innocence will take a lot of money."

"I
thought the prosecutor had to prove his guilt?"

"Most
people think that. Until they're in the system. Then they learn the truth.
Can you get Dale to wire the money A-S-A-P? It's Sunday here. What time is it
there?"

"Seven-thirty."

"Is
Dale there?"

"He's
sleeping."

"Exciting
life."

"It
was, for six months."

"Banks
are closed. Can he wire the money tomorrow?"

She
did not speak.

"Liz?
You still there?"

"I'm
here. Frank … we don't have that much money."

"Dale's
a billionaire."

"Not
anymore."

"What
happened?"

"Gas
prices plunged. From eleven dollars per whatever to less than two."