The Case Against William (3 page)

"Like
I haven't heard that before."

The
cop wasn't pleased. He slammed a landline phone down on the table in front of
William.

"You
got one phone call, William Tucker."

William
stared at the phone. It had never gone this far before. He had never been
cuffed to the floor ring or given one phone call. By now he should be taking
photos with grinning cops. He felt the first twinge of nervousness. He
decided that the game situation required a different play. So he smiled, as if
he were endorsing sneakers.

"All
right, I'll sign some autographs and take some photos, okay? Then I need to
get back to the dorm and sleep, get some rest, see the trainer tomorrow.
Knee's acting up. We got another big game Saturday. I could probably get you
some tickets."

The
cop did not smile back. His nametag read "Sgt. Murphy." He had gray
hair and a big belly. He sat on the edge of the table and crossed his arms.
He regarded William. His face turned fatherly, and he sighed as if William had
just wrecked the family station wagon.

"Son,
this ain't no joke. The star card ain't gonna get you out of jail this time.
You're not charged with being drunk and rowdy on Sixth Street. You're charged
with rape and murder."

The
smile left William's face.

"I
didn't rape or murder anyone. This is a big mistake."

"I
don't think so, stud. They found your DNA on the victim."

"What
DNA?
What victim?"

"Texas
Tech cheerleader. You raped and murdered her two years ago here in Austin,
same day you played a game against Tech. With that DNA evidence,
you could spend the rest of your life in prison."

"
Prison?
"

Something
was terribly wrong.

"I
can't go to prison—I've got a game Saturday. I've got to win the Heisman
Trophy and the national championship. I've got to go number one in the pro
draft, play for the Cowboys, win the Super Bowl. I'm William Tucker, star
quarterback."

"Not
anymore. From now on, you're William Tucker, accused killer."

At
that moment, reality hit William with the force of a blitzing linebacker: this
arrest was different. The cops weren't grinning. They weren't joking. They
weren't bringing him Gatorade and treating him special. They weren't begging
for photographs with him. All of which meant one thing: he was in serious
trouble. Rape. Murder. DNA. Prison. That twinge of nervousness had escalated
into a full-body anxiety attack. His respiration ramped; sweat beads popped on
his forehead. He didn't know what to do. What play to call. Who to call.
His media consultant? His quarterback coach? His mom? He leaned forward, put
his elbows on the table, closed his eyes, and covered his face with his massive
hands. For the first time in his life, William felt small.

"Oh,
shit."

When
he opened his eyes, he was staring at the phone. He looked up at the cop.
Even his voice sounded small.

"Who
should I call?"

"Your
lawyer."

"I
don't have a lawyer."

The
cop sighed. "Most college kids, they're hauled in here for public
intoxication. Girls, they call their mamas. Boys, they call their
daddies." He scratched his chin and grunted. "Rape and murder,
better call your dad."

"My
dad
?"

William
shook his head then again hid his face in his hands.

"My
dad's a fucking loser."

"You're
the best dad in the whole world."

Could
a twelve-year-old boy understand what those words meant to a man? No. He
could not. Only another man could. Another father.

"And
you're the best son in the whole world," Frank Tucker said.

That's
the way it is for a father. Your son is part of you, but you thank God that he
got only the good part of you and not the bad part of you. Not the nose or the
ears or the acne. Because you don't look at your son and think, I want him to
be me. You look at him and think, I want him to be better than me. That's a
father's dream for his son.

Frank
tossed the football back to his son. William was in sixth grade, but he was
big for his age. He was tall and strong with broad shoulders and big bones. If
he grew into his hands and feet—which already seemed man-sized—he'd be
six-three, maybe six-four. He could already throw a football from the other
side of the playscape to this side of the big oak tree. Thirty-five yards.
Frank had paced off the distance. Rusty, their golden retriever, barked at
William; he wanted in the game. William took an imaginary snap from center
then bounced to his right to evade Rusty as if the dog were a blitzing
linebacker, set his feet, and fired the ball back. A perfect spiral. With
velocity. The leather stung Frank's hands.

"I'm
going to be the Dallas Cowboys' quarterback," William said. "I'm
going to be a star."

That
was a boy's dream for himself. Every twelve-year-old boy dreams those kinds of
dreams. Frank had dreamt of being a pro golfer, another Jack Nicklaus, but he
couldn't make a putt to save his life—or win a match. So he had gone to law
school. Plan B, as they say. He wondered if William Tucker would need a Plan
B.

He
threw the ball back to his son.

William
caught the ball, rolled to his left, quickly set his feet, and rifled the ball
to his dad as if he were running an out route. He had the coolest dad in his
school. The other dads, they were rich businessmen and doctors and even
lawyers like his dad, but they weren't famous criminal defense lawyers like his
dad. Of course, he didn't help bad guys who hurt nice people. He only helped
good guys the police thought were bad, but they weren't really bad. He proved
they were really innocent. He said his clients were mostly white-collar
defendants, although William never understood what the color of their shirt
collars had to do with whether they're guilty or innocent.

"I
want to be famous like you," William said.

Dad
threw the ball back.

"I'm
not famous."

"You're
always in the paper."

"Because
my clients are famous."

William
rolled right then threw a fade left.

"Like
the senator?"

"Yes.
Like her."

His
dad was in some big trial up in Austin. He had come home for the weekend.

"Why
do famous people call you?"

"Because
they're in trouble."

"Why?"

"Because
they made mistakes. Or because the prosecutor thinks they made mistakes."

"But
they're not bad people?"

"No.
My clients are innocent."

"What
if they're guilty?"

"Then
they're not my clients."

"What
if they're rich and can pay you a lot of money?"

"They're
still not my clients."

"Are
we rich?"

"We're
comfortable."

He
sometimes said things like that instead of yes or no. That's how lawyers
answer questions.

"We
live in a big house in River Oaks," William said.

"It's
not big for River Oaks."

Dad
wore white collars, too, but he wasn't a criminal. He was wearing a white
shirt and a colorful tie and his suit pants and smooth leather shoes and trying
not to step in Rusty's poop that William was supposed to have already picked
up. Dad had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up. He had just driven in from
Austin and pulled the Expedition into the garage and saw William out back, so
he had just started tossing the ball, not even changing into play clothes
first. He was like that. Suits and stuff didn't matter to him, even when he
sweated like now. He was pretty old, forty-five, but he didn't look that old,
like the other boys' dads did, pale guys with pudgy bodies and bald heads. He looked
manly, like an athlete. He worked out at his law firm's gym. He said he stayed
in shape to keep up with his son. They ran the streets of River Oaks on
weekends and played golf together at the club. And Dad still had his hair.
Other moms looked at him when he came up to the school to have lunch with
William or to attend William's games. William felt proud that Frank Tucker was
his dad.

"Dinner's ready!"

Becky
called from the back door. William jogged over to his dad and held up an open
hand; Dad slapped his hand. A high-five. Dad said William had high-fived
since was a baby. Now it was their personal bonding thing, like Dad always
kissed Becky on her forehead. William was way too old for his dad to kiss
him. They walked around the pool and into the house. Rusty followed them in.
They lived in a big two-story house in a nice part of Houston called River
Oaks. Most people would probably call it a mansion, but most of his classmates
had bigger homes. Mom wanted a bigger house. Dad made a lot of money; he said
Mom spent a lot of money. Sometimes William saw in his face that he wanted to
say more to Mom, but he didn't.

"Just
keeping the peace, William," he always said.

Frank
walked through the back door and into the kitchen to his wife and daughter and
the aroma of Lupe's enchiladas. He had been away for five days, but his wife
did not rush to him from the other side of the kitchen. She did not embrace
him. She did not kiss him. She seldom looked at him anymore. She had always
preferred that people look at her. Elizabeth was still the blonde beauty queen
at the University of Texas.

"I
missed you, Daddy."

His
daughter gave him a big hug. He squeezed her then kissed her forehead. She
smelled fresh and fourteen; unlike William, who had taken to showering every
other day or so, Becky bathed daily. She wore her cheerleader uniform. The
varsity football team played that night.

"How
was your week, honey?"

"We
lost both games."

Becky
was an eighth-grader at the same private school William attended. She played
on the volleyball team and cheered for the other teams. She was blonde and
blue-eyed like her mother but taller, almost as tall as Frank. She was a
pretty girl, but not a beauty queen like her mother; she had gotten too much of
Frank for that. But she was athletic. And smart. Mature for her age. She
seemed to be raising herself; all he had to do was pay her tuition and feed
her. He always said that she had been born thirty years old.

"Sorry
I missed them."

He
seldom did.

"Don't
be. We're terrible. Daddy, can we go to the beach tomorrow?"

They
had a beach house in Galveston just forty-five miles south of Houston. It was
just a bungalow that sat right on the beach on the West End where there was no
seawall. The next hurricane would wipe the small structure off its stilts, but
Frank had gotten it at a good price: a client had paid him in kind, with a
deed instead of cash. He and the kids and Rusty loved the beach; not so much
Liz. The sea air made for too many bad hair days. Frank Tucker belonged on a
beach. One day he would live on a beach, maybe when the kids were grown.

"We
can't this weekend. William's got a game tomorrow, and I've got closing
arguments on Monday. I'll have to drive back to Austin Sunday
afternoon."

"Will
you make my games next week?"

"The
case will go to the jury Monday morning. We won't get a verdict until Thursday
or Friday at the earliest. But you never know with juries, so I'll have to
stay in Austin. Sorry."

"You
know, Father"—when she addressed him as "Father" instead of
"Daddy" he knew she had been thinking seriously about
something—"if I went to public school, I could play on a good team, maybe
get noticed by colleges. With Title Nine, I could get a scholarship."

"To
play volleyball?"

"Unh-huh.
Colleges have to give girls the same number of scholarships as boys. Boys get
eighty-five football scholarships, thirteen for basketball, and
eleven-point-seven for baseball."

"Eleven-point-seven?"

"Football
and basketball are head count sports, but not baseball. So they can divvy up
the total scholarships, give half scholarships to the players. Anyway, that's
a hundred nine-point-seven scholarships they have to give to girls, and we
don't have a big sport like football. So girls get scholarships for
basketball, softball, soccer, swimming, diving, track, tennis, golf,
gymnastics, rowing, field hockey, rugby, equestrian, indoor and sand
volleyball, and bowling."

"
Bowling?
"

She
nodded. "They've got to match scholarships, and they won't cut
football."

"Good,"
William said. " 'Cause I want one of those football scholarships."

The
U.S. Congress decided in 1972 that college sports required intervention by the
federal government; members of Congress were apparently not busy enough
bungling national defense and screwing up the economy. Feminist groups complained
that girls didn't have enough athletic opportunities in college. So Congress
enacted a federal law that divvied up athletic scholarships between boys and
girls. In order to comply with Title Nine, colleges must provide an equal
number of athletic scholarships for boys and girls, even if the boys' sports
made money and the girls' sports lost money. Hence, bowling for girls.

"So
what about it, Father?" his daughter said.

"You've
already got a scholarship."

"I
do?"

He
nodded. "It's called Daddy. Full tuition and room and board at the
college of your choice."

"Wellesley.
It'll cost sixty thousand a year by the time I go to college."

Frank
blinked hard. "You really think you could get a volleyball
scholarship?"

Lupe,
their maid, cook, and nanny, walked over and handed Frank a cold Heineken. She
knew him well after ten years.

"
Gracias
,"
he said.

Frank
took a long swallow of the beer. He was not a drinker; he had never acquired a
taste for wine or hard liquor. Back at UT, he had consumed his share of Lone
Star beer; now his alcohol consumption consisted of one cold Heineken with
Lupe's Mexican food, a Friday night tradition in the Tucker household. After a
long week in court and a three-hour drive, the beer went down easily.