The Case Against William (32 page)

"But
it's my life. Scotty Raines can save my life."

"He
might get you off, stud, but your life ain't worth saving."

Only
thirty-two men in the world are special enough to be starting quarterbacks in
the National Football League. More people are qualified to be president of the
United States of America—to lead the Free World than to lead a pro football
team. Fact is, being president is a hell of a lot easier job. Try giving a
State of the Union speech while a three-hundred-pound son of a bitch is trying
to face plant you into the floor of the U.S. Congress. That's the workplace of
an NFL quarterback. A small five-square-foot pocket formed by his large
offensive linemen fighting off the equally large defensive lineman, with a
blitzing linebacker or D-back thrown in for good measure. In that small space
on a football field, during a three-second window, the quarterback must read the
defense, choose the open receiver, and make a strong, accurate throw, while
ignoring the massive arms and legs and bodies flailing all around him and
trying to face plant him in the turf. An NFL quarterback must possess the
physical skills to throw the football thirty yards downfield into an opening
the size of a can of soup with precise timing so that ball and receiver arrive
simultaneously at the same spot on the field and the mental temperament to take
the blame when the receiver screws up. He must have the confidence to throw
five interceptions in the first half and then a touchdown pass in the last
seconds to win the game. He must be physically tough enough to take the
beating and mentally tough enough to take the beating. He must be a very special
sort of athlete. Which meant Dwayne was wrong.

William
Tucker was special.

William
Tucker's life was worth saving. Because he was a special athlete, which is to
say, a special human being. He had proved it in high school, he had proved it
in college, and he would prove it in the NFL. Next season, he would be one of
those thirty-two starting quarterbacks.

"
A
movie deal? For a million dollars?
Who the fuck are you?"

The
gangbanger next door.

"I'm
William Tucker."

"Who
the fuck's William Tucker?"

"The
best football player in America."

"No
shit? What the fuck you doing in here?"

"I'm
getting out, that's what I'm doing. I won't be here tomorrow night."

I
am William Tucker. And I am special.

"All
rise!"

Judge
Harold Rooney entered his courtroom, sat behind his bench, and put on his
reading glasses. The first entry on that day's docket sheet read
The State
of Texas v. William Tucker
, Motion for Reinstatement and Reduction of
Bail. He glanced over at the district attorney at the prosecution table and
then at the defendant at the defense table with his lawyer.

Scotty
Raines.

"I
see a new face. Mr. Raines."

Scotty
stood. "Your Honor, I've been retained by William Tucker to represent him
in this case."

"I
see. And what about his prior counsel? Ms. Campbell and Mr. Tucker?"

"He
no longer needs their services."

Harold
turned to the defendant. "Is that correct, Mr. Tucker? You no longer
need Ms. Crawford? Or your father?"

The
boy smiled. "No, sir. I don't need them."

Harold
grunted. The boy didn't need his father.

"All
right, Mr. Raines, you're now counsel of record. You are aware that this is a
death penalty case?"

"Yes,
Your Honor."

"You
have submitted a motion to reinstate and reduce bail to ten thousand
dollars."

"That's
correct, Your Honor."

"Mr.
Dorkin, your response."

"State
has no objection, Your Honor."

Harold
sighed and thumbed through the document before him. The motion cited all the
cases and made all the arguments for the defendant's release—a canned motion.
Harold had seen the same one a thousand times. But the most compelling
argument favoring the defendant was not written in the motion: Scotty Raines'
law firm had contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars to the district attorney's
political campaigns—and to Harold's. You don't write those things down. And
now Scotty expected to be repaid. To collect a favor. Dick Dorkin owed him
and had paid his debt off. Harold owed him, and Scotty now expected the debt
to be paid in full.

Scotty
Raines's law firm had bought the district attorney, just as the firm had bought
Judge Harold Rooney. In Texas, district attorneys and judges were politicians
elected in partisan elections. Democrat or Republican. Conservative or
liberal. It wasn't about justice or injustice, it was about getting
reelected. Democracy and justice were often distant relatives. Because
elections cost money. But citizens did not contribute to judges' campaigns
because ninety-nine-point-nine percent would never see the inside of a
courtroom. Lawyers would. They did. Courtrooms were their playing fields and
judges the referees. It was good to have the law and the facts on your side,
but it was better to have the judge. Lawyers have a vested interest in which
judges they face each day, and they want the judges they face to be indebted to
them. Some years back, the Texas supreme court proposed a judicial rule that
would have allowed either party to disqualify a judge if the other party or
lawyer had contributed $5,000 or more to his last campaign. Lawyers in Texas
voted down the proposal overwhelmingly. Therein lies the truth: as Scotty
Raines himself often quipped (to much laughter) at bar meetings, "Texas
has the best judges money can buy."

So
Scotty stood there with a smug look on his face, knowing that he had bought
this judge and this judge would give him what he wanted: freedom for his
client.

Or
would he?

Harold
Rooney had sat on the bench in Travis County for sixteen years now. He had won
four elections. He had collected hundreds of thousands of dollars in campaign
contributions from lawyers. He had paid them all back.

But
he had never saved a life.

The
typical criminal defendants who came before him—gangbangers, drug dealers, sex
offenders, child abusers—their lives were beyond saving. The only lives he
could save were their future victims. And they were not represented by the
Scotty Raineses of the bar. They were represented by public defenders who
could not afford to contribute to his campaigns. So he locked their clients up
for as long as the law allowed and then some. He was a judge but he couldn't
save their lives.

Just
as he couldn't save his own son's life. He had called in his own favors, back
when he was practicing with a large firm that made generous campaign
contributions to judges, and gotten his own son released on PR on a drug
charge. His son had promptly overdosed on heroin. Died. Twenty years old.
If he had only left his son in jail, practiced a little tough love instead of
hard lawyering, his son might be alive today. Harold had never forgiven
himself. A father can't forgive that kind of mistake.

Now
he saw the same mistake being played out again, in his own courtroom this
time. A connected lawyer calling in favors.

William
Tucker's life might be saved. Could be saved. If he were innocent; and in his
gut, Harold thought he was. Of course, he had thought the same about Bradley
Todd. And he had been wrong. Dead wrong.

But
if he were innocent. If he came out of this trial a changed man. If this
experience taught him the value of life—his life and other people's lives. If
he learned that he was not special, just lucky. Lucky to have been born in
America where pro athletes make $20 million a year. Lucky to have been blessed
with unusual size, strength, and speed and remarkable athletic ability. Lucky
to have been given the chance to succeed as an athlete.

Lucky
to have Frank Tucker as his father.

Five
weeks behind bars, William Tucker had learned nothing. So Judge Harold Rooney
would try again to save the boy's life.

"Motion
denied."

Frank
woke with a fierce hangover. He had drunk whiskey until he had passed out the
night before. A lot of whiskey. It was so easy to fall off the wagon. One
shot, and the warmth of the whiskey inside his body just eased the fall. It
was like coming home for Christmas, except it was only Thanksgiving.

Frank
did not run that morning. He did not work out. He did not bathe in the Gulf. He
went straight to his protein shake, with two shots of vodka. He was off the
case and off the wagon. He was back to his old life. Back to drinking hard
liquor. Back to being a worthless beach bum of a lawyer.

His
son no longer needed him.

Becky
stepped out onto the back porch of the bungalow.

"Anyone
want coffee?" she asked.

"
Coffee?
"
Chuck said, as if she had said broccoli. "Caffeine's bad for your
health."

"And
whiskey and cigarettes aren't?"

"You
have to make choices in life, Becky."

She
had driven down from Houston to spend Thanksgiving on the beach with her
father. And his friends. Dwayne, Chico, and Chuck—she liked them. They were
great characters in her book—so many flaws. Tragic flaws. Like her father.
But she didn't want Frank Tucker to be a tragic hero. Just her hero.

"Ecuador,"
Dwayne said.

The
others groaned.

"Ecuador?"
Becky said.

"Everything's
cheap, and they got beautiful beaches."

"And
girls?" Chuck said.

"Oh,
yeah."

"I'm
in."

Becky
sat down with her cup of coffee, opened her laptop, pulled up her manuscript,
and typed fast. Her book was racing to the end now. But how would it end?

Billie Jean pulled up in her candy apple red Mustang at
noon. The top was down, and the sun was out. She got out and scanned the
beach. She spotted Becky and Frank walking far down the sand and tossing
sticks for Rusty. About fifty feet from the bungalow sat a deep fryer,
apparently placed there so as not to endanger the bungalow and its
inhabitants. Chuck was up to something for Thanksgiving dinner. Strung from
the fryer to the bungalow was a long orange extension cord. Billie Jean
was pretty sure that didn't meet code. Just as she was pretty sure that she
would find Dwayne and Chico sitting on the back porch and smoking tobacco and
marijuana, respectively. Billie Jean Campbell was forty years old, and she now
found herself in a place she thought she would never be in her life. Actually,
two places: Rockport, Texas, and in love.

She
was in love with an older man. A broken-down lawyer. Life had kicked her to
the ground before; she knew how it felt. She had bared her body to survive.
But survive she had. She had pushed herself up off the ground, and then she
had kicked life in the balls. That's the kind of girl she was. Which is to
say, not the kind of girl most men would find appealing. But Frank did. Find
her appealing. She thought. She hoped.

But
if his son went to prison, Frank would do the time with him. He would never be
free of guilt. Never free to love and live. With himself or with her. She
wanted to help him. And his son. Because she was the son's court-appointed
lawyer. And because she was in love with his father.

"You
got that turkey fried yet?" Dwayne said. "I'm hungry."

They
were all lounging on the back porch. Chuck checked his watch.

"Should
be done."

Chuck
stood, stepped down to the sand, and headed to the fryer. He had assured Frank
that he knew what he was doing; he had seen a turkey fried on cable. Frank had
his doubts, but he figured Chuck couldn't hurt himself too badly.

BOOM!

The
force of the explosion knocked Chuck back and down to the sand.

"Shit!"
Dwayne shouted.

Frank
jumped up and off the porch in time to see the fried turkey fly through the air
and land in the surf.

"And
they say turkeys can't fly," Chico said.

"You
okay, Chuck?" Frank asked.

Chuck
rubbed his face free of sand. "Yeah. Might've got the peanut oil too
hot. Should've stuck to Crisco."

Becky
laughed loudly. Then she typed fast.

"You
can't make this stuff up," she said.

Frank
shook his head. "You're in the book, Chuck."

The
defense fund had a balance of $325 so they decided to celebrate Thanksgiving
with fried shrimp and cold beer in town. Billie Jean volunteered to be the designated driver.
Dwayne, being the biggest of the bunch, sat in the passenger bucket seat up
front. The four others squeezed into the back seat. Becky was almost in
Frank's lap, as if she were still his little girl.

"Mom
and Dale are in Romania now," she said.

"Chico,
blow that smoke the other way," Dwayne said. "I'm starting to feel
young."

"That's
why they call it medicinal, my friend. And it's cheaper than an antidepressant
prescription."

"You
depressed?" Chuck asked.

"Spending
Thanksgiving with you guys instead of my girls, playing poker with sand
dollars, my wife married to another man—"

His
wife had left him for another man while he was incarcerated, but he still loved
her.

"—hell,
yes, I'm depressed."

He
sucked hard on the joint. It was night, and they were playing poker on the
back porch. Becky had left for Houston and Billie Jean for Austin. But
Frank could summon up no interest in playing poker with sand dollars. He was
hard into the bottle these days, so his emotions had sunk to the bottom of the
Gulf of Mexico. He pushed his sand dollars to the pile and tossed his cards on
the table.

"You're
not going to try to bluff me?" Dwayne said.

Frank
stood and walked through the sand to the surf. He stared out to sea. He had
climbed out of the gutter to save his son. He had put the bottle down. He had
a purpose in life. He felt needed again. A man needs to be needed. At least
by his family.