The Case Against William (27 page)

"I
think so."

"Black
cop?"

"Yeah."

"Well,
we just have a few follow-up questions."

She
sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"I
want to know if it's true you can't buy a drink in Lubbock?" Chuck said.

"You
can now. They voted the county wet a few years back."

"Oh,
praise the Lord."

Cissy
frowned. "That's what you wanted to know?"

"No,"
Dwayne said. "We want to know what happened to Dee Dee?"

She
shook her head and looked as if she might cry.

"I
guess William Tucker killed her."

"No.
Before that night."

"Oh."

Now
a few tears came.

"You
ever see that show 'Girls Gone Wild'?" she said.

"Oh,
I love that show," Chuck said. "I've got all the seasons on
DVDs."

Like
a kid who had all the
Barney
episodes.

"Well,
that was Dee Dee—girl gone wild. She was this country girl from Sweetwater,
but she got here and just went ape."

"How
so?" Dwayne said.

"Sex.
I mean, everybody gets a little wild, first semester at college, away from your
parents, all the boys, the parties, the alcohol. But not like her. She was as
sweet as sugar, but she loved sex. I mean, loved it. She was like a sex
athlete."

"She
was what you would call promiscuous?"

"She
was what I'd call a nympho."

"With
anyone in particular?"

"Athletes.
Star athletes."

"Did
you tell the investigators this back then?"

She
shook her head. "I didn't want to hurt her family. I met them. They
were really nice people. They went to church. But I told that black detective
two weeks ago."

"You
and Dee Dee roomed together that weekend in Austin?"

She
nodded.

"After
the game, you went out?"

"A
bunch of us cheerleaders did."

"To
the Dizzy Rooster?"

Another
nod.

"Did
you see William Tucker there?"

"He
came in after we had been there a while. When he walked into the bar, there
was a lot of commotion, people taking cell phone photos of him, that sort of
thing—it was like Channing Tatum had walked in."

"Who?"

"Movie
star."

"Oh."

"But
he saw us—we were still wearing our cheerleader outfits—"

"Why?"

"So
the UT players would see us. He walked right up to us. Dee Dee latched onto
him, so I flirted with some other UT players."

"So
you personally witnessed William Tucker meet Dee Dee that night at the Dizzy
Rooster?"

"I
personally witnessed them groping each other like horny high schoolers."

"Right
there in the bar?"

"Right
there at the bar."

"Did
they stay at the bar all night?"

"No.
When I looked for her again, they were heading to the back."

"Back
where?"

"Back of the bar. I figured they were going somewhere to hook
up."

"Hook
up? Meaning, to have sex."

"Yes."

"Did
you see them again?"

"Him.
Later I hear this noise, I turn around and he's puking at the bar."

"William
threw up in the bar?"

"Yeah."

"But
Dee Dee wasn't there?"

"No."

"What
time was this?"

"I
didn't check my watch. You lose track of time when you're drunk."

"Were
you drunk?"

"We
all were."

"Dee
Dee too?"

"Sure."

"Did
you tell the police she had met William?"

"No."

"Why
not?"

"Why?"

"You
didn't think the fact that she had hooked up with William Tucker might've been
important to their investigation into her death?"

"No.
When they came to my room the next morning, said Dee Dee was dead and had been
raped, it never occurred to me that William Tucker might have raped and killed
her."

"Why
not?"

She
offered a shrug. "He's a huge star athlete. He didn't have to rape
her."

"Ain't
no sex in prison. Not the kind you want, anyway."

The
gangbanger next door. William lay on his cot in the dark. The cellblock was
quiet. Two words pounded in his brain: death penalty. And two lawyers stood
between him and death row: a drunk and an ex-stripper. She was an unproven
rookie. He was a past-his-prime star who had lost the skills he once had, who
had let himself go, who could no longer compete. Who threw his career away for
the bottle, just as so many star athletes had thrown their careers away for
drugs. Did he want Frank Tucker quarterbacking his team? With his life on the
line? No. He did not. But he didn't have the money to go into the free-agent
market and buy a better lawyer. Which meant he didn't have a prayer. Just as
his team didn't have a prayer against Kansas State the next day. They would
lose. He would lose. The team would go home. He would go to prison. To death
row.

"Was
she pretty?"

"Who?"

"That
girl you killed?"

"I
didn't kill her."

"Okay.
Was that girl you didn't kill pretty?"

"I
don't remember her."

"That
don't work, William."

"What?"

"Saying
you don't remember nothing. Jury say, he gotta remember something."

"I
had a concussion."

"For
real?"

"I
played a game that day. Strong safety clocked me, helmet to helmet. My coach
said I thought I was Troy Aikman playing for the Cowboys against the
Giants."

"I
always like Troy. Romo, he drive me fuckin' nuts, but Troy, he a player. I
remember that game, he got a concussion, linebacker hammered his helmet into
Troy's jaw, almost bit his tongue off, bleeding all out his mouth, still
throwed the winning touchdown. You do that?"

"No.
I throwed … I threw up."

"Ain't
you supposed to go to the hospital?"

"I
did. They released me."

"And
you went straight for the pussy?" The gangbanger laughed. "Man, you
must got that high testosterone, too. Shit, you'd be a good brother, fit right
in. We the same way. We like the pussy. But that all over now, William
Tucker. For both of us."

The
gangbanger sighed.

"Ain't
no pussy in prison."

Frank
woke the next morning in wet clothes and a wet bed. He had sweated through the
night. Consequently, he had not slept well. And one thought occupied his
mind: whiskey. He craved a drink. Just one.

But
he fought the urge.

He
went to the bathroom, changed into dry clothes, drank some water, put his
sunglasses on, and walked outside. He ran. Almost a mile before throwing up.
He was still bent over with his hands on his knees when Rusty barked. He had
noticed something down the beach. Frank stood straight and focused on the
object in the distance.

"What
the …?"

A
horse ridden by a woman galloped toward them. Frank tried to shake the image
from his head. Hallucinations were one of many possible alcohol withdrawal
symptoms. Hell, he had suffered the shakes and the sweats, why not
hallucinations? The horse and the woman came closer. She appeared to be
naked. Well, at least he had interesting hallucinations. He and Rusty stood
frozen as the horse and woman galloped past them. She was in fact naked.

"Morning,"
she said.

Frank
grunted. At least he wasn't hallucinating.

He
bathed, drank his protein shake, napped, counseled a lawyer, napped again, and
worked out. Fifteen pushups, ten pull-ups, twenty sit-ups, and thirty jumping
jacks. He ate another protein bar. And he thought about his son's blood. And
Dee Dee Dunston.

"How's
the detox coming?"

Billie Jean
called that afternoon.

"I'm
fighting it."

"Any
ideas on the blood?"

"No.
But I can't think clearly right now."

"It'll
get better once you've cleansed your brain of the alcohol."

"I
hope so."

She
fell silent. But she had something to say.

"What?"

"Frank,
if William can't remember meeting Dee Dee that night—and he did, her number's
on his phone—what else about that night can't he remember?"

"He
can't remember because of the concussion, but the concussion didn't make him
violent."

"I
was just thinking out loud. You don't have to be grumpy."

She
hung up. Frank turned the TV on to watch the UT game. He did feel kind of
grumpy. But hell, he was a drunk trying to sober up. That'd make anyone
grumpy.

"Adams
takes the snap … looking for a receiver … throws across the middle … intercepted!"

"Shit!"
William said.

In
exchange for his autograph on a jersey, the fat-ass guard had loaned William
his small radio so he could listen to the Texas-Kansas State game. Third
quarter and the Longhorns were losing thirty-five to nothing. There goes the
national championship … unless he could get out this week and play
Saturday. They could still go 11-1. That might be good enough for a shot at
the title, if Alabama loses to Auburn. There was still a chance for the
championship. And the Heisman.

On
the radio: "He breaks open … touchdown!"

Forty-two
to nothing. UT's backup quarterback had thrown more completions to the K-State
D-backs than to the Longhorn receivers. He was only a freshman, and this was
his first game action. With William at quarterback, the team couldn't recruit
top quarterback prospects—they knew they'd sit the bench until he graduated.
No one expected him to be sitting in jail.

"Man,
they jumping his throws 'cause he's staring at his receivers. He need to look
'em off."

The
gangbanger next door. As if he played.

"You
ever play?"

"Hell,
yeah, I play."

"What
position?"

"Q-B."

"Really?
Where?"

"Houston Yates."

"They're
good."

"Damn
straight we was. I was. Run a four-four forty, throwed six touchdown passes
in one game. I had skills."

"You
get any offers?"

"From
colleges?"

"Yeah."

"Nah."

"Bad
transcript?"

"Bad
rap sheet."

"In
high school?"

"Man,
I been in the life since I was born. Time I got to high school, they knowed me
real good down at the po-lice station. Never got that diploma. I'd like to
have that now, tape it to my cell wall, look at it. Know I done
something make my mama proud."

"You
haven't had a drink in twelve days?"

"Not
even a beer."

By
his twelfth day of sobriety, Frank ran two miles before he threw up. He pushed
up (twenty-five times), pulled up (fifteen), sat up (twenty-five), and jumped
jacks (fifty). His strength and stamina were coming back; his mind was working
better; he felt alive again. But he still fought the cravings. Every minute.
Of every day.

"I'm
proud of you, Daddy."

Frank
fought his emotions. Men who aren't fathers think dads want their children to
make them proud. Not true. A dad is always proud of his children. What he
really wants is his children to be proud of him. But how could Frank's
children be proud of him when he wasn't proud of himself? He had killed a
girl. He was as much to blame as Bradley Todd.

"You
look good. Have you lost weight?"

"Ten
pounds."

His
daughter threw the tennis ball far down the beach. Rusty raced to fetch it.
It was the first Sunday in November, only five weeks until the trial, and the
defense team had gathered at the beach bungalow to prepare his son's case for
trial. And to play poker. On the porch around the table sat Dwayne, Chuck,
and Chico trying to take Billie Jean's sand dollars; but she had learned more than
stripping in her prior life. She was also a card shark.

"I'm
writing a novel," Becky said.

She
had returned home from Wellesley and completed her degree in English and
creative writing at Texas State University in San Marcos thirty miles south of
Austin. She studied under Denis Johnson and Tim O'Brien, two National Book
Award winning authors teaching at a public college in Texas.

"What's
it called?"

"
The
Autobiography of Rebecca
."

"What's
it about?"

"A
dysfunctional family. The father is a famous criminal defense lawyer in
Houston, but he becomes a drunken beach bum after he wins an acquittal for a
star college athlete charged with rape and murder only to learn that he was in
fact guilty and then he kills again. The mother is a former beauty queen
turned social climber who divorces him and marries a billionaire oilman only to
see him lose everything when the gas market collapses. The son is a star
football player who's always gotten all the family's attention and now finds
himself accused of rape and murder. And the father finds himself faced with
the same case again—but this time it's his own son who claims innocence."

"So
it's fiction?"

"Of course."

"And
who is Rebecca?"

"The
daughter who never got any attention. Who was the perfect child who helped
keep the peace between the mother and father. Who's still trying to figure out
where she fits in the family."

Frank
reached over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. He pulled her
close.

"Right
here."

She
wiped tears from her face.

"You
were the perfect first child. You raised yourself. It seemed that you didn't
need much attention."

"I
did."

"I'm
sorry. I tried to be a good dad, to both of you. There was just so much I
didn't know. But I love you, Becky. I've always loved you."

"As
much as William?"

"Yes.
He just seemed to require so much attention, like he sucked all the air from
the room."