The Case Against William (31 page)

"No."

"
Ergo
."

"
Ergo
what?" She shook her head. "I can't believe you're telling me I'm
too good looking for you. What if I make myself look like a three?"

"Not
possible."

"You've
never seen me in the morning."

"True."

"Your
theory's stupid, Frank. Now shut up and hold my hand."

He
held her hand. It felt good. They strolled hand in hand down the sand and
watched the seagulls searching the sea for their breakfast.

"I
always wanted to live on a beach."

"Why?"

"I
grew up in Dalhart."

"That
would do it."

"Did
you always want to live on the beach?"

"Yes.
But by choice, not by whiskey."

"Sometimes
the best choices are the ones made for us."

"Try
being a drunk."

The
beach seemed brighter sober.

"How's
he holding up? William."

"He's
not. Facing a death sentence, sitting in that cell … he's panicking."

"That's
understandable."

"We're
coming up Sunday, for his birthday."

"Can
I come?"

"Well,
I guess so. We're holding hands."

"You're
a good father, Frank."

"I
was, until I started drinking. But I never had to strip to pay the bills.
Does your daughter appreciate what you did for her?"

"I
think so."

"Is
she like you?"

"She's
better."

"I'd
like to meet her."

"You
will."

They
walked in silence and breathed in the sea air.

"Frank,
I hope William appreciates you."

He
shook his head. "Doesn't work that way. I didn't appreciate my father
until I became a father. But it was too late to tell him—he had already died.
That's how things work with fathers and sons. You don't appreciate your old
man until you are an old man."

"William
Tucker, you ever meet you daddy?"

The
gangbanger next door.

"Uh
… yeah."

"I
never did. Seen him one time, think it was him anyway. Last I heard, he in
prison up north somewhere. Chicago, maybe. Crack dealing. Your daddy in
prison?"

"No.
He's in the bottle."

"Alcoholic?"

"Yeah."

"My
mama, she a wino. Love that grape juice. My daddy a crack head. Ain't
exactly what you call 'Leave It to Beaver.' "

The
gangbanger next door laughed, but not as if it were funny.

Frank
Tucker woke with a clear head and without a headache or aches and pains. Not
too many, anyway. He felt good for a fifty-five-year-old man. He looked down
at his dog sleeping on the floor.

"Let's
do it, Rusty."

He
strapped on his running shoes—he could only run so far barefooted—and his
sunglasses. He stepped onto the porch and stretched. Thirty-two days without
a drink. Thirty-two days of running and working out. Thirty-two days of
puking. Thirty-two days of stopping before the jetty.

But
not that day.

He
jumped down to the sand and ran. A nice easy pace at first; he wasn't trying
to win a race, just finish it. A five-mile marathon. The morning air felt
good in his lungs, and the morning beach felt different to his eyes. As if he
had never really seen the beach all this time. As if he had lived his life in
a haze of whiskey and vodka and beer. But he saw it now, this beach he lived
on and this life he still had. He had felt dead for so many years. Now he
felt alive again.

His
son needed him. A woman liked him.

The
first mile passed easily. The second mile almost as easily. The third mile
not so easily. His body was weakening, but his mind was not. His mind
remained strong. Sobriety had brought strength. To his body, but even more to
his mind. He could think again. He would need to be strong, mentally and
physically to save his son. A murder trial is a grueling endeavor. Some
trials last six weeks, some six months. If your body fails, your mind will
follow. And an innocent person might go to prison.

The
pain came in the fourth mile. His legs hurt. He sucked oxygen hard. His body
begged to quit, but his mind refused. He would not quit on himself. Or on his
son.

Rusty
barked. He saw the jetty first. Now Frank could see it, like a mirage in the
distance. Less than a mile to go. Weeks of running and working out …
pushups, pull-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks … one hundred of each … twice
a day.

Half
a mile and he spit bile.

A
quarter of a mile and he couldn't breathe.

Two
hundred yards and he sucked hard for air.

One
hundred and he felt faint.

Fifty
and he couldn't feel his feet.

Frank's
feet left the sand and hit the surface of the concrete that had been poured
between the rocks of the jetty. He did not slow his pace. He pushed himself
harder. He ran down the center of the narrow jetty all the way to the point.
He stopped. Rusty barked. The waves hit the rocks and splashed over them.
Frank felt like Rocky Balboa. He threw his arms into the air. He was the man
he used to be. Now he wanted to be the lawyer he used to be. He needed to be
that lawyer again.

To
save his son's life.

William
Tucker turned twenty-three that Sunday. So instead of running the five miles
to the jetty that morning, Frank had driven to Austin. He was worried about
his son. William had called him regularly since his incarceration; but the
calls had stopped that week. Frank had called the jail but had not been put
through. He left messages, but William had not returned them. With each call,
William's emotional state seemed to be spiraling downward. Faster. His last
call he had said it was his destiny to die in prison.

"I
can break him out of here," Chico said.

Dwayne,
Chuck, and Chico had come along. Billie Jean and Becky had been waiting for them in the
plaza. The open space was free of media; apparently, testosterone and
stupidity had joined together to produce a bad result for a pro basketball
player, so the sports cable channels had decamped Austin for Chicago. Becky
brought a birthday cake she had made herself. Frank promised to save a big
piece for the desk sergeant, so he allowed them to take the cake into the
interview room. Frank put the cake on the table in front of the glass
partition and lit the candles. His son would celebrate his birthday in jail.

"Now
don't look shocked at his appearance," Becky said. "He doesn't eat
or sleep, so he's lost weight. He looks like hell."

"He's
in hell," Chico said.

They
stood before the cake like a choir. The door on the inmate side opened, and a
guard stepped in. Frank started singing loudly enough that William might hear
on his side of the glass; the others joined in.

 
"Happy birthday to you,
"Happy birthday to you …"

Frank
felt as if he were singing to his twelve-year-old son again. The birthday boy
bounded into the interview room with a bounce in his shackled step and a big
smile on his face. Their voices fell from their surprise. And confusion.

 
"Happy birthday dear William,
"Happy birthday to you."

William
waved at everyone like a kid at his surprise birthday party then grabbed the
phone on his side. Frank picked up on his side.

"Hey,
you remembered my birthday. Becky bake that cake?"

"She
did."

"Tell
her thanks."

Frank
did. Back into the phone: "Happy birthday, son. Uh, what's going on,
William?"

"I
feel great. Worked out today—pushups, sit-ups, jump squats. Gotta get in
shape. I'm going to play pro football next year."

"How?"

His
smile got bigger.

"You're
not going to believe it."

"What?"

"I
got a movie deal."

"A
movie deal?"

"He
got a movie deal?" Becky said.

Frank
nodded at her.

"For
my life story," William said into the phone.

"From
jail? How?"

"Okay, so my college career is over, right, like the judge
said? The season will be over before the trial. And, hell, they've lost every
game without me. Shit, they lost to Baylor. Anyway, I'm not worried about
losing my amateur status. So I hired an agent."

"An
agent? Who?"

"He
got an agent?" Dwayne said.

Frank
nodded at him.

"Warren
Ziff," William said. "He's a real asshole, reps half the starting
quarterbacks in the NFL."

"How'd
he find you in jail?"

"Everyone
in America knows I'm in jail. ESPN runs daily updates."

"You
get cable in there?"

"No.
Warren told me. Agents have been calling me since my freshman year, trying to
sign me up. A lot this year, until I got arrested. Warren came to the jail
last week."

"And
then?"

"He
sold my life story to Hollywood for a million bucks."

"A
million dollars?"

"He
got a million dollars?" Chuck said.

Frank
nodded again.

"Do
we get paid now?"

Back
to William: "And he's shopping a book deal. I'm gonna hire Becky to
write it. Frank, I'm saved. Warren hooked me up with a big-time lawyer. He
says he can get me out of here. It's too late for the Heisman, but not for the
NFL draft. I've got time to get in top shape again, blow the pro coaches away
at the combine. I can still go number one."

"You
hired another lawyer?"

"He
hired another lawyer?" Billie Jean said.

Frank
nodded at her. Into the phone: "Who?"

William
pointed past Frank.

"Him."

Frank
turned to see Scotty Raines standing there. Raines was mid-forties and high
profile in Austin, the second-best criminal defense lawyer in Texas, until
Frank became a drunk. Now Scotty was the best. He wore a crisp button-down
shirt, sharply creased slacks, and shiny shoes, apparently his Sunday casual
attire. Frank wore a T-shirt, jeans, and deck shoes. No socks. Scotty looked
him up and down with a bemused smile.

"Frank."

"You're
representing my son?"

"I
am." Scotty checked his watch. A Rolex. "And I need to confer with
him before I see the D.A. Privately."

Frank
glanced back at his son; he offered the same big smile. Frank turned back to
the others.

"Becky,
guys, why don't y'all step outside while—"

"Uh,
Frank," Scotty said. "Sorry. Attorney-client privilege. If you sit
in, the privilege is waived, you know that."

"I'm
a lawyer, too, Scotty."

"Not
anymore. At least not a licensed lawyer." Scotty gestured at Billie Jean.
"And I don't need an ex-stripper on the defense team."

"I
need a drink," Frank said.

"You
need a son worth giving a shit about," Dwayne said.

"I
changed my mind," Chico said. "I don't want to break him out."

The
six of them and the birthday cake sat on a bench in the plaza.

"He
fired you?" Becky said. "His own father?"

"He
fired me, too," Billie Jean said. "And I work for free."

"So
you guys are off the case?" Becky said.

"We
are."

"I
told you he changed, Daddy. He became a star. He doesn't give a shit about
anyone except himself now. We're all just his fucking entourage!"

She
never cursed. She wiped her eyes.

"No,
he's doing the smart thing. Scotty Raines is a top defense attorney with a big
firm. They're connected."

"To
whom?" Billie Jean said.

"The
D.A. And all the judges."

"How?"

"Money.
Campaign contributions. That's how the system works in Texas. Lawyers give
judges campaign contributions, and judges repay the favor."

"And
they send us to jail," Chico said.

"So?"
Billie Jean said.

"So
Scotty can get his bail reduced, maybe to PR. He can get him out of
jail."

"But
can he get him acquitted?"

Frank
Tucker had fallen so low that even his own son didn't want his counsel. He
desperately wanted a drink.

"What
are we going to do now?" Billie Jean asked.

"Go
home."

And
dive into a whiskey bottle.

Scotty
Raines exited the Justice Center and waved as he walked across the plaza. Billie Jean
gave him the finger.

"Who
wants cake?" Frank said.

Chuck
raised a hand, but Becky grabbed the cake, walked over to a trash bin, and
threw it in.

"Damn,"
Chuck said. "I like cake."

"I'll
be back," Dwayne said.

Dwayne
picked up the defense team's briefcase and walked back inside the Justice
Center.

Dwayne
told the desk sergeant he needed to see William Tucker. He went into the
interview room and waited. When the guards brought William back in, Dwayne put
the phone to his ear. William did the same.

"What
do you want?" William said.

Dwayne
opened the briefcase and tossed newspapers and magazines bearing the image of
William Tucker onto the table in front of the glass partition. He read the
bylines.

"
'Another OJ' … 'All-American Psycho' … 'Number One in the Death Row
Draft' … They all think you're guilty. Hell, I think you're guilty. Only
one person in this world believes in you, stud, and that's your old man. He
thinks you're innocent. I hope for his sake you are. If you weren't Frank's
son, I'd be happy to see you rot in prison. Or take the needle. One less
spoiled egotistical jock who thinks the world revolves around him. Where's the
world now, stud? Where are all your fans now? Your coaches and teammates?
Those college coeds? Who's standing with you now? Your father. He's the best
man and lawyer I've ever known, drunk or sober. He's a good man got run over by
that dump truck called life. Now you dump on him? If that's the way sons
treat their dads, I'm fucking glad I didn't have a son. You might be innocent
of murder, but you're guilty of being one sorry-ass prick of a son. You
understand that everyone comes in contact with you can't stand you? Hell, I
don't even know you and I can't stand you. You don't have a fucking
clue."