The Case Against William (30 page)

"William
Tucker, you awake?"

The
whispered voice of the gangbanger next door. William was awake. He was always
awake. He couldn't sleep. Or eat. Or think. He couldn't put a complete
sentence together in his head. Or even a phrase. Only two words registered in
his mind: death penalty.

"What
did I do to deserve this?"

"Ain't
no deservin', William. There's just destiny."

"This
isn't my destiny."

"Yeah,
it is. You just ain't accepted it yet. Took me a while, too, had to spend a
lot of time thinking 'bout it. One thing about prison, you got lots of time to
think. You ever think about dying?"

"I
do now."

"Me,
too. How old are you?"

"I'll
be twenty-three in two weeks. How old are you?"

"Twenty-five.
I ain't gonna see twenty-six. Second time around, ain't no appeals, no stays
of execution. Man, they got that needle ready for me. Course, my name been on
that needle since the day I was born. That always been my destiny."

Twenty-six
days without alcohol in his system. Frank Tucker had undergone a complete
physical detoxification. But not a mental one. He still wanted to drink.
Desperately. He stopped and puked after three and a half miles.

"You
okay?"

He
nodded and waved Billie Jean on. They were running the beach. Well, she
was running; he was jogging. Rusty barked at Billie Jean racing down the
sand.

"Yep,
that girl can run. Go ahead, I'll catch up."

The
dog ran after the girl.

"Have
you lost weight?"

"Yeah.
Can't sleep. Can't eat. Can't think. Except about the death penalty."

"Dad
will save you."

"How?
He can't save himself."

"He
stopped drinking. For you."

"He'll
start again. For himself."

Becky
Tucker sat on the visitor's side of the glass partition and held the phone to
her ear; her little brother sat on the other side with a phone to his ear. He
was an inmate in the county jail accused of rape and murder. They had once
been so close, brother and sister. Now he seemed so distant. So different.

"What
motivates you, William?"

He
groaned. "Don't start that creative writing bullshit with me, Becky. I'm
not a character in your book."

"Of
course you are. You're the protagonist."

"Really?
Am I the action-hero?"

"You're
the tragic hero."

"That
doesn't sound good."

"The protagonist is blessed with all the athletic talent
required to become a star football player in America and to live a life few
people can even dream of—"

"Are
you writing my life story?"

"No.
I'm writing mine. Anyway, he loses it all because of his fatal flaw."

"Which
is?"

"He
doesn't understand the difference between being special and being lucky."

"Bullshit,
Becky. I understand the difference."

"Which
is?"

"I'm
special. All the fans who get to watch me play are lucky."

He
seemed serious.

"Oh,
and he's got an ego bigger than Montana."

"Try
winning a football game with low self-esteem. The game's all about the
quarterback, Becky. It's all on me. I have to make the decisions on the field
that mean winning or losing. I have to make the correct reads and the perfect
passes. I have to scramble when the protection breaks down. I have to make it
happen out there. I have to lead the team to victory. It's all about
me."

"And
he likes himself a lot, as evidenced by his repetitive use of 'I' and 'me' and
'my' and 'mine.' "

"Can
I sue you if you say something bad about me?"

"A
good character has to be bigger than life but brought down to life because of
his flaws. That's why you're such a great character, William."

"Because I'm so much bigger than life?"

"Because
you have so many flaws."

"Funny."

"The
truth. But you're still my little … very big brother, and I still love
you."

"No
one else does. Nobody comes to see me."

"Not
your coaches?"

"No."

"Teammates?"

"No."

"Girls?"

"Hell, no."

"So
who else comes to see you?"

"Frank."

"
Frank?
You don't call him 'Dad'?"

"Dads
don't show up drunk at your game."

"But
they show up when you're in jail. What does that tell you?"

Her
little-big brother pondered that a moment then said, "I didn't pay a lot
of attention in my English Lit class, but doesn't the tragic hero always die at
the end?"

He
could kill these little punks.

Dwayne
Gentry stomped on the accelerator and steered after the perps. He had the
vehicle running all out, lights flashing, racing over the pavement; but these
boys were runners, even packing the backpacks stuffed with the stolen
contraband. They were making for the line where his jurisdiction ended; once
across they were home free. So he decided to cut them off at the pass. He veered
hard to his left and took a side alley; the vehicle scraped the exterior walls
of the structures, but Dwayne had trashed his share of official vehicles in his
career. He cleared the alley and cut the wheel hard to the right, too hard,
and—

"Oh,
shit!"

—the
vehicle's right two tires left the ground. He leaned his big body to the
right, and the vehicle came back to earth and bounced hard—which cost him
valuable seconds. He punched the gas and headed directly to their escape
route. One more corner—he veered left—and he'd be right on them—

"Damn!"

He
slammed on the brakes and skidded to stop. The perps flung the backpacks over
the perimeter fence then scurried up and over like squirrels up a tree. They
dropped to the other side. Outside his jurisdiction. They grabbed the
backpacks and ran a safe distance then turned back. Dwayne could no longer
point a gun, so he pointed his cigar.

"I
know who you are! You punks better stay the hell out of my mini-storage
park!"

The
teenage boys held up middle fingers.

"Hey,
fuck you, Dwayne!"

Boys
got no home training. Dwayne Gentry plopped down onto the vinyl seat of the
golf cart with the little yellow flashing light and watched the perps running
off with the contraband. Now he would have to explain to the boss how they
managed to break into another storage unit in broad daylight. He checked his
watch. Straight-up noon. Oh, lunchtime. Maybe pizza.

Chico
Duran held his cell phone with his left hand, texted with his right hand, and
drove with his knees. Sure, it was a bit dangerous for his fellow drivers and
pedestrians, but he was not worried: he had no insurance. Or assets. His net
worth consisted entirely of his next tip and his next disability payment.
Which didn't technically belong to Chico Duran.

He
screeched the 4x4 with the portable neon sign atop that read "Pizza
Man" to a stop in front of a big house in the nice part of Rockport.
Where rich folks in Houston had bought weekend homes on the canals cut into the
shore to allow boat access to the bay. Big-ass homes. He got out and grabbed
the heat pack with the pizza boxes inside. Two extra large pepperonis. The
twenty-two inch monsters, extra cheese, extra pepperoni, comes to $28.50 plus a
$5.00 delivery charge. Plus a tip.

He
walked up the sidewalk and rang the doorbell. A teenage girl wearing a
T-shirt, a short blue jean skirt, and an iPhone answered.

"Pizza's
here," she said into the phone.

"Thirty-three
fifty," he said.

"You're
a bad boy."

"I
am?"

She
frowned at Chico and gestured at her phone.

"You
want me to do what? Ooh, you really are a bad boy."

Like
she liked him being a bad boy.

"Right
now? I gotta pay the pizza man. Well, okay." To Chico, she said,
"Just a sec."

She
held the phone out as if she was giving it to him, but she wasn't. She put a
real sexy look on her face then clicked a button on the phone. She took her
own photo. The look disappeared, and she checked the phone. She frowned and
turned the screen to Chico.

"You
think this is a sexy pic?"

It
was.

"Yeah.
That's sexy."

"It's
for my boyfriend."

The
bad boy.

"Pizza's
getting cold."

She
turned back to the house and screamed, "Jacy, bring money for the
pizza!"

Girl's
got some lungs.

Then
she bent over a little and stuck the phone up her short skirt. Chico heard the
same click and saw a flash of light under her skirt. The girl took a picture
of her privates. Damn. She was sexting. She stood straight and looked at the
phone's screen. She frowned again.

"Uh,
you want me to check out that pic, too?" Chico said.

Without
looking up, she said, "As if."

Must mean no.

"Pizza's
getting cold."

"Jacy!"

"
What?
"

Another
teenage girl appeared in the doorway. She gave Chico two twenties and grabbed
the pizza. The sexter slammed the door in his face. Six-fifty tip, not bad.

Chuck
Miller blew his whistle and halted the game.

"We
got a facemask on White. Ten yards. Touchdown is called back."

"You're
full of shit!" a parent from the sideline yelled.

Peewee
football. Kindergartners in pads and cleats trying to make their daddies
proud. Hell, the pads were bigger than the boys, and the boys could barely
keep from peeing in their pants, but their parents went apeshit over every call
he made. He stepped off ten yards against the White team. Chuck wore a
black-and-white striped referee's shirt and a black cap. And sunglasses to
hide his bloodshot eyes. A player tugged on his shirtsleeve.

"Georgie's
bleeding."

"What?"

"He's
bleeding. Georgie."

Chuck
followed the player to the White huddle. Another player was holding his arm
and staring at his elbow. Blood seeped out of a cut. Chuck blew his whistle
again.

"Bodily
fluid timeout," he called out to the coaches. One time he had to call a
bodily fluid timeout when a kid crapped his uniform. It happens. Chuck
grabbed his sports bottle he carried in a waist pack and sucked on the
pop-top. He loved orange-flavored Gatorade, especially when he mixed in a
little vodka. Okay, a lot of vodka. He swiped his sleeve across his mouth and
said to the bleeder, "You gotta go to the sideline and get that cut
bandaged."

The
boy waddled over to the sideline where his mommy greeted him in full-blown
hysterics, as if he had suffered a punctured artery and blood was spurting
out. Hell, it was just a little cut. As he watched the mother tending to the
boy, a thought tried to take shape in Chuck's mind but try though he did, he
could not connect the dots in order to fashion a complete sentence. He felt
the familiar beginning of a panic attack coming on—
oh, shit, it's the brain
damage
—but a sudden realization calmed him just before he dropped to the
turf and curled up in the fetal position: it wasn't the brain damage
preventing a complete thought; it was the vodka. A sense of relief washed over
him.
I'm just drunk!
He took another long swig of his sports drink.

"Any
ideas on the blood?" Billie Jean asked. "Only three weeks till
trial."

Frank
had found her waiting for him at the point of the jetty. With man's best
friend. Running the five miles from the bungalow to the jetty was his goal.
When he could do that, he would be back. He would again be the man he used to
be. But would he ever be the lawyer he used to be? That was the question.
They were walking the beach back to the bungalow.

"No."

"His
blood, her phone number and photo, the surveillance tape, the
fact that they met that night, Cissy Dupre testifying that they groped … it
doesn't look good, Frank."

"There's
an answer out there somewhere, we've just got to find it."

"How
can I help? I don't feel I'm doing enough."

"You
will. Before this trial is over, you'll play a big role. Everyone on the team
will."

The
tide was out, and the beach filled with an assortment of sea matter and dead
fish. He tossed a stick for Rusty, and the dog raced ahead. It was nice to
have someone to walk with who could talk.

"So
why'd you come down?"

"I
like the beach. I like being on the beach with you. And I like you,
Frank."

Frank
felt awkward. A beautiful woman saying, "I like you," had not been
on his day planner for that Sunday.

"I'm
not sure what to say."

"Well,
you could say, 'I like you, too, Billie Jean.' If you do."

"I
like you, too, Billie Jean. But it won't work. Us."

"Why
not?"

"You're
a ten."

"I'm
a four."

"Not
your dress size. Your ranking."

"My
ranking? You mean, like one to ten in beauty?"

"Yeah.
You're a ten, and I'm a five. At best."

"I'm
less than a ten, and you're more than a five. Maybe a six. Six and a
half."

She
smiled. By the time Frank had explained his human food chain theory, how men
and women date according to their respective positions on the wealth and beauty
ranking, she was not smiling.

"You're
not serious?"

"I
am."

"So
you've developed this goofy little theory about love and life—were you drinking
when you came up with this?—because your ex-wife was too stuck up and stupid to
see what a good man she had, and now you're going to push me away because of
this bullshit theory, to use the West Texas vernacular."

"Does
George Clooney date girls who are fives?"

"No."

"Does
Amy Adams date guys who are fives?"