The Case Against William (29 page)

"I'm
gonna die in prison."

A
few blocks away at the Austin Police Department headquarters, Dwayne Gentry sat
next to Detective Herman Jones's desk. Herman seemed pained.

"You
need to know about your boy," he said.

"What?"

"He
killed the girl."

"He
said he never met her."

"But
he did. Her phone number's on his phone."

"And
her photo."

Herman
smiled. "You found it? I told the D.A. you would. But he figures he's
the smartest guy in the room. Likes to play games."

"But
that's explainable. That's how kids roll these days, texting and sexting.
Wish to hell I was a kid today."

"Amen,
brother."

The
two men smiled at the thought. As they say, youth is wasted on the young.

"And
he got back to his dorm before the time of death," Dwayne said.

Herman's
smiled turned into a frown.

"That's
why I said you should come see me," he said. "The boy lied."

Herman
inserted a CD into his laptop and tapped the keyboard. He turned the screen so Dwayne could
see. A video clip played. It showed William Tucker and Ty Walker, aka Cowboy,
entering the Jester dormitory's front door.

"Check
the time stamp," Herman said.

"One-thirty-eight
A.M.
Eleven-thirteen-eleven.
November thirteenth, two thousand eleven." Dwayne blew out a breath.
"Well, shit."

"The
law says I have to disclose exculpatory evidence. It doesn't say that I have to
disclose incriminating evidence or that I have to lead you through the evidence
and point out the good stuff. You've got to do some of the work yourself,
Frank."

"You
want the death penalty that badly, hiding the victim's photo and phone number
in plain sight. You're an asshole, Dick."

Dick
Dorkin shrugged. "I can live with that. But can your son live with a
death sentence?" He exhaled. "You know, Frank, I liked you better
drunk. You're so intense sober."

He
grinned. Frank did not.

"Well,"
Dick said, "so now you know and you know it's bad."

"Did
you subpoena his phone records from back then?"

"Yep."

"Any
texts or calls from him to her?"

"Nope."

"What's
that tell you?"

"Nothing.
She died that same night. He wouldn't call a dead girl."

"Doesn't
mean he killed her."

"Means
he met her that same night in that same bar. Frank, the evidence proves they
were together inside the bar the same night she died outside the bar.
According to the eyewitness, Cissy Dupre, they kissed and groped. She saw them
heading to the back of the bar where there's a door leading to the alley
outside, the same alley where she was found—with his blood on her body. The
witness saw William again that night, but not Dee Dee. All that adds up to
murder, conviction, and a death sentence."

"Circumstantial
evidence."

"Most
evidence is, you know that. One question you've got to answer, Frank: how did
his blood get on her body? Explain that. You can't. Because there's only one
explanation: his blood got on her when he raped and strangled her."

"He
wasn't even there when she was killed. Autopsy report says time of death was
midnight to two
A.M.
He said he
was back in his dorm before the time of death."

"He
lied."

"How
do you know?"

"Right
now, Detective Herman Jones is giving your man a CD of the dorm surveillance tape from
that night which shows your son entering the dorm at one-thirty-eight
A.M.
He was out when she was killed.
Frank, your son's another Bradley Todd."

Frank
Tucker looked as if Dick had just kicked him in the balls. It was fun holding
all the aces in the deck. It rarely happens in a criminal case; the defense
usually holds an ace, sometimes two. Or three. That's when prosecutors often
venture into that murky realm known as "prosecutorial misconduct."
When they inadvertently misplace a piece of exculpatory evidence or forget to
file a contradictory witness account or, if necessary for a conviction, simply
destroy a document that might make the jury question the defendant's guilt.
Many prosecutors figure it's best not to confuse the jurors with the facts.
Frank was still squirming in his chair, so Dick turned to the PD named Billie Jean.
She was a sexy broad. Word of her past had spread through the Travis County
criminal justice system faster than two cops through a box of donuts.

"You're
the stripper?"

"I
was
the stripper."

Dick
grunted. "One of my assistant D.A.'s, he's getting married, the boys are
holding a bachelor's party for him, if you want to make some extra cash."

The
stripper smiled and held up a middle finger.

"That's
a no?"

Dick
chuckled and turned back to Frank.

"Hey,
did you catch the ESPN segment on the case?" He picked up a remote and
pointed it at the screen on the wall. "I TiVo'ed it."

The
segment began with the UT-Texas Tech game from two years before. Dee Dee
Dunston cheering … William Tucker playing … and Frank Tucker stumbling
over equipment on the sideline. Dick chuckled at Frank Tucker's expense.

"There's
a memory."

He
froze the image on the screen and turned to Frank.

"So
the great Frank Tucker's famous trial strategy backfired this time, didn't it?
Thought you'd push me to trial, gain the upper hand. I'm ready for trial,
Frank—I take it you're not?"

"I'm
gonna punch you before this is over, Dick."

"You'll
have to get in line," Billie Jean said.

Dick
grinned. He was having the best time imaginable.

"Get
him to plead, Frank, I'll agree to life without parole. At least your son will
still have his life."

"Life
in prison isn't much of a life."

"They
said all my clients would claim innocence but be guilty," Billie Jean
said. "They said we're just a Sixth Amendment right to counsel
formality."

Frank
and Billie Jean sat outside on a bench in the plaza between the Justice Center
and the jail. All the evidence said his son was guilty, but Frank knew he was
innocent. He knew it. He just had to prove it. The burden was no longer on
the state to prove the defendant guilty; it was on the defendant to prove
himself innocent. The American criminal justice system had long been
predicated on a simple belief: "It's better to let a hundred guilty
people go free than to convict one innocent person." But not anymore.
Now the prevailing philosophy was, "It's better to convict a hundred
innocent people than to let one guilty person go free." Crime had changed
America. Americans. They feared criminals, and they wanted to be safe. So
they elected district attorneys and judges who put people in prison, and they
criticized juries that didn't. But they didn't know that one day all that
might stand between them and a prison cell is a district attorney or judge who
put justice ahead of reelection or twelve citizens doing their legal duty and
requiring the prosecutor to prove their guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. But
they never think it will happen to them. Or to their sons or daughters.

Until
it does.

"What
if they're wrong? What if one of your clients is in fact innocent? What if
you let an innocent person go to prison? That would haunt you forever."

"Like
getting a guilty person off only to see him kill again?"

"Like
that."

Dwayne
inhaled on his cigar, Chuck his cigarette, and Chico his joint. They exhaled
in unison. Their emissions blended together and created an odd
manly-sweet-toxic aroma. Fortunately, the sea breeze blew it away. It was two
days later, a Sunday, and they had gathered on the back porch of Frank's
bungalow because they had nothing better to do—it wasn't as if they were going
to take up yoga that day—and they knew Frank had alcoholic beverages stashed
away even if he were not partaking at the moment. Chico drank a beer, Dwayne a
Jim Beam with a shot of Coca-Cola, and Chuck his Gatorade-and-vodka sports
drink. Frank was running the beach with the dog.

"I'm
thinking about frying a turkey for Thanksgiving," Chuck said.

Dwayne
frowned. "A
fried
turkey?"

"Yeah,
I've been reading about it. You drop the whole bird into a pot of peanut oil,
fry it up."

"Why
you figure on frying a bird?"

"I
can't grill a turkey. Won't fit on the Weber."

Dwayne
grunted. "Well, I like just about anything that's fried, long as beer goes
with it."

"Well,
of course beer goes with fried turkey. Beer goes with all your food
groups."

Chico
sucked on his joint, held it for a five count, and then exhaled.

"So
what do you think, Dwayne?" he said. "You're the ex-cop."

"About
fried turkey?"

"About
the Federal Reserve's decision to keep interest rates low. The hell you
think—William Tucker."

"I
ain't buying his amnesia-by-concussion defense. He remembers. He just don't
want to remember. 'Cause he did it. He killed that girl."

"Ditto."

"Yeah,
me, too," Chuck said. He exhaled cigarette smoke. "All these star
football players, they think the rules don't apply to them, find out the hard
way they do. That Giants receiver, Plaxico Burress, he wins the MVP of the
Super Bowl then carries a loaded handgun into a New York bar. Has it in the
waistband of his sweatpants, like the elastic is gonna hold up a big ol' Glock
nine millimeter. The gun falls down, hits the floor, and discharges—he shoots
himself in the foot."

"Literally,"
Dwayne said.

"Lucky
he didn't shoot his dick off," Chico said.

"Spent
two years in prison for criminal possession of a firearm," Chuck said.

"He
should've spent two more for criminal stupidity," Dwayne said.

"Who's
he playing for now?" Chico said. "Philadelphia?"

"Pittsburgh,"
Chuck said.

He
kept up with those things.

"And
O.J.," Chuck said.

Orenthal
James Simpson, aka, O.J., Heisman Trophy winner and NFL Hall of Fame
halfback, was tried and acquitted in 1995 of murdering his ex-wife and another
man but was tried and convicted in 2008 for armed robbery and kidnapping and
sent to prison for nine-to-thirty-three years.

"He's
just bad," Dwayne said. "A criminal who could play football."

"He
was good."

"Real
good."

"And
Nate Newton, he played on the Cowboys Super Bowl teams, retired, and took up
drug dealing."

"Dumb."

"And
Michael Vick, that dogfighting deal."

Vick
was a star NFL quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons who ran an illegal
dogfighting ring on the side. He pleaded guilty and spent two years in
prison. Upon his release, he returned to the NFL to play for the Philadelphia
Eagles. Star athletes always get second chances. And third chances.

"Dumber."

"And
that Patriots player, Hernandez, they indicted him for murder. I saw an
interview just the other day, he said he was a role model for Hispanics."

"Only
if they live in Nuevo Laredo."

"More
dumber."

"And
now William Tucker."

"Most
dumber."

"Might
cause a man to drink," Chico said. "Or start drinking again."

"That's
gonna be hard on Frank," Chuck said.

"Harder
on his boy, when they punch that needle into his arm," Dwayne said.
"Too many lies, too much DNA. Says he never met her, but her roommate witnessed
them meeting at that bar that night. Her phone number in his phone, but he says
he didn't input her number, says she did it. On his phone. You ever put your
number in someone else's phone?"

"Nope."

"Me
neither. Her photo on his phone, but he says she took it herself. You ever
take your own photo?"

"Nope."

"Me
neither. Says he got back to his dorm around midnight, but the surveillance tape shows
him entering the dorm at one-thirty-eight, right in line with the time of
death. Boy's lied every step of the way. But DNA don't lie. He had direct
physical contact with the girl, that's the only way his blood got on her. No
other explanation."

"Makes
you wonder why we're trying to save the boy," Chico said.

"We're
not saving William Tucker," Dwayne said. "We're saving Frank
Tucker."

"Frank
seems convinced his boy is innocent," Chuck said.

"Three
things in life are certain: death, taxes, and a father's love for his son.
What dad can accept that his son's a cold-blooded killer? Seen it many times
in Houston, we got the killer dead to rights, but his daddy's saying, 'My boy
wouldn't hurt no one. He's a good boy.' And I'd say, 'Well, sir, your good
boy stuck a gun to a convenience store clerk and pulled the trigger 'cause he
wanted a pack of cigarettes.' Fathers, they just can't believe they raised a
killer."

Was
he a murderer? And a rapist? Was he innocent? Or was he guilty? That night
had forever been wiped from his mind. The helmet-to-helmet hit had banged his
brain against the inside of his skull, causing a traumatic brain bruising and
putting him in a cloudy dreamlike state for days. He didn't tell the coaches
or the doctors because he didn't want to be benched the next game; you don't
win the Heisman Trophy sitting on the bench. You've got to play. And in
football, you play hurt. Bad knee, bad shoulder, bad brain—you still play.

But
you don't remember.

Hell,
he had thrown touchdown passes he couldn't remember and won games he couldn't
remember. He had played entire games on autopilot. On instinct. His bell had
been rung, but his instincts had played on. He couldn't remember those games,
and he couldn't remember that night. Not the Dizzy Rooster, not the girl, not
anything. If he couldn't remember being there or meeting her—which he
obviously was and did—what else could he not remember?