The Case Against William (23 page)

"Tell
the dad, the D.A.'s playing to win. And he's got the ethics of a pit
bull."

"No
dogs in the locker room," Coach Bruce said.

He
meant Rusty.

"He's
a trained police dog," Frank said.

"He'd
better be potty-trained. He craps on this carpet, I'm in a heap of shit. So
to speak."

Frank
diverted the coach's attention from Rusty.

"William
said you're his closest friend," Frank said.

Coach
Bruce nodded. "It's that way, quarterback coach and quarterback. We
spend a lot of time together, especially during the season. He's a dedicated
athlete, Mr. Tucker. Never stops training, always working to get better.
That's why he's the best there is. Best there ever was. Would've won the
Heisman his sophomore year, except for that game … and now this." He
seemed solemn. "We've had players in trouble with the law, all the big
football schools do, but the death penalty? Shit, that wouldn't be good for
the program."

"Or
him."

Coach
Bruce Palmer looked to be about forty; he was lean and fit, as if he had once
played and still could. He wore a burnt orange Longhorn sweat suit and
sneakers and a UT cap.

"What's
your opinion of my son?"

"He's
a great quarterback."

"As
a man."

"He's
a star."

"What's
that mean?"

"Means
it's different for him. For every star."

"In
what way?"

"In
every way. They don't have the typical college experience. First day they
walk on this campus, they're celebrities. Other students treat them like
gods. And if they happen to be the best college football player in America,
like William, it's a crazy life. Hard for him to have close friends, he never
knew if his friends had an agenda. You know, does this girl like him or the
attention she gets being his girlfriend? And there's a lot of attention living
in William's world. Believe me, I know that for a fact. We've all been living
in William's world the last four years."

"So
a girl would date him to move up in the world?"

He
shrugged. "It happens. Remember last year, the BCS
Championship Game, they showed the Alabama quarterback's girlfriend in the
stands on national TV. Good looking gal. Next thing you know, she's got a gig
reporting at the Super Bowl. That's what can happen to the star's girlfriend,
kind of like winning
American Idol
except she doesn't have to
sing."

Coach
Bruce was giving Frank and the guys a tour of the athletic facilities at the
stadium—the one-hundred-thousand-seat stadium, the twenty-thousand-square-foot
weight room, and now the lavish locker room that offered gaming stations.

"We
didn't have anything like this when I played," Chuck said.

"Or
when I played," Coach Bruce said. "But we make more money than any
other football program in America, and we spend more. Best of the best.
Winning the national championship back in oh-five changed everything. The
money just poured in after that. Hundred fifty million we made last year, from
TV revenue, merchandising, ticket sales, luxury suites and premium seating … we've even got our own cable TV channel, the 'Longhorn Network.' And we
don't have to pay taxes."

"It's
not considered business income unrelated to education?" Frank asked.

"Nope."

"Why
not?"

"Politics.
Every state has a UT—a big public university that wants to be number one in
football. That takes money. A lot of money. If we had to pay taxes on our
business income like everyone else, we couldn't offer all this to top
recruits. So Congress exempted athletic income from taxes."

"I
exempted myself," Chico said. "Haven't paid a dime in taxes in
years."

Coach
Bruce's expression said he wasn't sure if Chico was joking. He wasn't. He
lived his life off the books.

"This
was William's locker … is his locker," Coach Bruce said.

Since
Dwayne wasn't there, Chico, having the most personal experience in the criminal
justice system, played cop and frisked the locker. He came up empty-handed.
The space was filled only with football cleats, uniforms, protein powder,
protein bars, protein drinks, vitamins, supplements, and footballs. Coach
Bruce picked up a football and gripped it as if to pass. His emotions got the
best of him.

"He
was the best I've ever coached."

"He
didn't die," Frank said. "He was arrested for a crime he didn't
commit. He'll play again."

That
perked Coach Bruce up.

"This
season?"

"Maybe
not."

His
face fell. "Damn. We don't have a prayer without William."

They
turned away from William's locker, but Coach Bruce quickly turned back.

"Put
that ball back."

Chuck
had taken one of the footballs from William's locker.

"Dang."

He
put the ball back. Coach Bruce gave Frank a look. He shrugged.

"We're
not related."

"Can
you ask him to stop?"

Coach
Bruce gestured at Chico, who was now playing at one of the game stations. It
was like taking the kids on a road trip. Fortunately, the inside tour ended,
and they returned outside to the stands. The stadium was a monument to
football. Rusty bounded down the stands and leapt onto the grass. He crapped.

"Great,"
Coach Bruce said.

"Fertilizer,"
Frank said.

The
coach's eyes drifted off Rusty and around the stadium.

"What
William could do on that field … unbelievable."

"You've
been here all four years with William?"

Coach
Bruce nodded.

"So
you were at that game two years ago?"

Another
nod. "I saw you on the sideline. Bad day for you. And William. Really
upset him, threw him off his game."

"I
know." Frank sighed. "So after the game, you took him to the
hospital?"

"The
docs gave him an MRI."

"They
diagnosed a concussion?"

"Yep."

"Did
he remember anything from the game?"

"Nothing.
Thought he was Troy Aikman."

"Roger
Staubach's my favorite Cowboy quarterback," Chuck said.

"Are
you serious?" Chico said. "Don Meredith, he was the man."

"Well,
he was the best on
Monday Night Football
, sure, but Staubach won two
Super Bowls."

"True,
but …"

Coach
Bruce looked from them to Frank with a confused expression. Frank could only
shrug.

"And
then you took him back to his dorm?"

Coach
Bruce nodded. "I got him dinner first. Told him to stay in and sleep.
Never knew he didn't until he got arrested Saturday night, read the story in
the Sunday paper. That was a shock."

"He
said his buddies came by, took him out. Cowboy and Red."

"Red
graduated last year."

"Where
would we find Cowboy?"

Coach
Bruce checked his watch.

"Dining
hall."

Ty
Walker, aka "Cowboy," was a cowboy from Amarillo. A big cowboy. He
wore a T-shirt, Wrangler jeans, and cowboy boots. He looked as if he had just
ridden in from the range. He was handsome in a rugged way. They found him
eating a steak in the athletic dining hall. He sat alone at a round table.
Spread on the table in front of him was the Austin paper with images of William
Tucker and Dee Dee Dunston. They sat down without an invitation.

"What
kind of sauce they put on that steak?" Chuck said.

Cowboy
glanced up from the paper and gave Chuck a look.

"Steak
sauce."

"Ahh."

"Who
the hell are you guys?" Cowboy asked. "You don't look like cops or
reporters."

"I
was a cop," Dwayne said.

They
had picked him up after their stadium tour.

"I'm
Frank Tucker, William's dad. These are my friends."

"Did
he do it?"

"You
have to ask?"

"These
days, you never know."

"You
don't seem surprised that he got arrested."

Cowboy
shrugged. "Part of the game. Players get cut, get hurt, get arrested … you just suit up the next game and play. That's just the way it is now.
Problem is, the backup quarterback sucks."

"Are
you and William close friends?"

Cowboy
cut a piece of steak and stabbed it with his fork. He stuffed it in his mouth
then answered Frank's question.

"Close?
We drank and chased girls together—well, I chased. He didn't have to. But I
don't know that he has any close friends."

"Why
not?"

"Because
we're just players—he's a star. Like when Garth was still singing—there was
Garth and there was everyone else."

Cowboy
assaulted the steak with a serrated knife.

"So
how would you describe your relationship with William?"

"I'm
just part of his entourage."

"Anyone
else on the team he hung out with?"

"Nah."

Cowboy
waved his fork at the dining hall. Other tables were occupied by big boys but
seemed segregated by race. All white or all black.

"Most
of the players are black now. We don't hang out together much."

"Racism?"
Dwayne said.

"Music.
We don't like rap, they don't like country."

"What
about Latino music?" Chico asked.

"Mexicans
don't play our kind of football."

"So
you eat alone?"

"This
was our table, me and William. Left the other chairs reserved for the girl
athletes."

"Did
you chase girls with William after that game?"

"We
chase girls after every game."

"At
the Dizzy Rooster?"

"Good
place for girls."

"Did
you take William there that night?"

"Maybe.
Too many games and too many bars to remember."

"Do
you remember taking him home that night?"

Cowboy
shook his head. "Too many nights. He doesn't remember?"

"He
got a concussion that game."

"Oh,
yeah. He got his bell rung good." Cowboy shrugged. "It happens.
Football's a collision sport."

Frank
pointed at Dee Dee Dunston's photo in the newspaper.

"You
ever see William with that girl?"

Cowboy
stared at the photo then shrugged. "Shit, I don't know. All their faces
blur together after a while. And that was too long ago."

"Only
two years."

"That's
a lifetime of girls."

"The
State of Texas versus William Tucker. Arraignment."

The
media now knew who Frank Tucker was. So the defense team had to fight their
way through the gauntlet of cameras and reporters on the plaza outside the
Justice Center. The murder trial of William Tucker, Heisman Trophy winner,
promised to be the biggest judicial media circus since the murder trial of O.J.
Simpson, Heisman Trophy winner, back in 1995. O.J.'s trial had been racially
charged—he was black; the victims and the cops were white—with the N-word
tossed about by one of the detectives. His defense counsel played the race
card; the prosecutors played inept. O.J. was acquitted. William Tucker could
depend on neither the race card nor inept prosecutors: he was white, the
victim was white, and the prosecutors were skilled and savvy. They would not
make mistakes. And their boss needed a win to assure his reelection.

"All
rise," the bailiff said.

Judge
Harold Rooney entered the courtroom through a door behind the bench. Frank
stood at the defense table; the guys sat in the spectator section like bored
retirees. The D.A. and three assistant district attorneys who looked like
ex-Navy Seals stood at the prosecution table. No one in the spectator pews
rose. Courtroom decorum had gone the way of business attire. The judge
arranged himself at the bench, shuffled through papers, and without looking up
said, "Make your appearances, gentlemen."

"Travis
County District Attorney Dick Dorkin, for the state."

"Frank
Tucker, for the defendant."

Now
the judge looked up—at Frank. He stared a long uncomfortable moment—Frank had
suffered such stares prior to his relocation to the beach, when old colleagues
in Houston encountered him in public—and then motioned the lawyers up to the
bench. The prosecution team wore dark suits and dark ties and short hair;
Frank wore jeans, a Hawaiian print shirt, and scraggly hair. The judge
regarded Frank over his reading glasses then turned the microphone away and
leaned forward. This conversation would be off the record.

"You
look like hell, Frank."

With
images of Dee Dee Dunston, deceased, fresh in their minds, they had drunk
whiskey late into the night at the campsite.

"Nice
to see you too, Harold."

"Frank,
I'm real sorry about your son. I hope he's innocent."

"He
is."

"Is
your law license still suspended?"

"It
is."

"So
you are appearing today in what capacity?"

"Father."

Harold
sighed and regarded Frank as one does an old friend who's fighting cancer. You
remember him as he once was—young and strong and unbroken—not as he is now—old
and weak and broken in mind, body, and spirit.

"Even
hung over, you're probably the best criminal defense lawyer alive, but as far
as this court is concerned, you're not a lawyer. I can't let you represent
your son."

"Harold,
I'm broke. I don't have the money to hire a lawyer for William. And my
ex-wife's husband is broke, too. He's in Poland trying to save himself. He
can't save my son. I can." He pointed a finger in the D.A.'s face.
"And this son of a bitch didn't tell me he was seeking the death
penalty."

The
D.A. smirked. "Surprise."

"Fuck
you, Dick. He's my son."

"Gentlemen,
this
is
a courtroom." Back to Frank: "Can he borrow the
money?"

"A
million bucks? He's a college kid."

"Who'll
go number one in the NFL draft in a few months."