The Case Against William (38 page)

"I
didn't mean to kill her! She just fell to the ground. She was fuckin'
dead!"

Bo
Cantrell seemed utterly distraught. But he was also utterly drunk and heavily
armed.

"Did
you see William?" Frank asked.

"I
saw them go outside, then he came back in for a beer but he puked, so some of
his boys said they'd take him home. So I went out back."

"You
killed her, Bo. You've got to answer for that."

"The
hell I do! It was a fuckin' accident."

"It
was rape. And murder. You're going to prison, Bo."

"Fuck
you."

He
aimed his dark eyes and the big gun at Frank.

"I
didn't mean to kill her!"

He
really didn't. Things got out of hand, is all. He was still raging on the
'roids from the game. He always injected a big dose a few hours before a game,
still did, so he'd be mean, real mean. He knew mean. He lived mean from
birth. He sucked the teat of mean. Life in the backwoods of Louisiana is
mean. It's a mean place inhabited by mean men. His daddy prided himself on
being the meanest son of a bitch in Beauregard Parish and he sure as hell was,
at least to his boys, drinking home brew and beating the hell out of Bo and his
younger brothers damn near every day, to make them tougher, he said, otherwise
they wouldn't amount to a hill of fucking beans and would end up in the state
penitentiary just as he had on several occasions. So by the time Bo Cantrell
left the swamps, he was damn mean.

But
the 'roids took him to a new and exciting level of mean. Out of fucking body
mean. Mean that took full control of his body. Mean that made him one of the
best linebackers in the country. He played with a mean rage. On a football
field, that was a real good thing; off the field, it often resulted in run-ins
with the law. People think you can just flip a switch—"mean" to
"not mean"—but it doesn't work that way. It's not on/off. It's more
like one of those dimmer switches. It takes time for the mean to retreat. And
the mean had made no retreat that night when he saw Dee Dee the stuck-up whore
coming on to the UT players like a bitch in heat. The mean took control of his
mind and body in that bar.

It
was the mean that punched Dee Dee in the face. It was the mean that forced
itself on her. It was the mean that choked her. When Bo had seen what the
mean had done to her, he ran two blocks away and threw up. He went back to his
hotel and cleaned up, sure the cops would bang on his door any moment. But
they didn't. They never came. A week passed, then a month, then a year. No
cops. No arrest. No prison. They said her murder was a cold case.

Bo
was home free. And he meant to stay free. He couldn't give it all up now. He
wouldn't give it up. The house, the vehicles, the stuff—he had amounted to
something, sure as hell. He was a hero back in Beauregard Parish. How could
he go home a murderer? How could he face the hometown folks and his drunk
father? Course, he wouldn't go home. He would go to prison. How could he do
that? How could he prove his daddy right after all these years? What if they
gave him the death penalty? How could he let his drunk son of a bitch daddy
sit on the other side of the glass when they stuck that needle in Bo and see
him laugh and say, "I told you, boy, ain't never gonna amount to a hill of
fuckin' beans."

He
could not.

There
was only one thing to do.

"Do
it!" Frank said. "Go ahead, Bo, kill us. But it won't be an
accident like Dee Dee. Now you'll just be a killer. A mean son of a bitch.
Like your daddy."

Bo's
face was clenched and red, his finger tight on the trigger … Frank waited
for the gun to discharge and a bullet to slam into his chest … Bo's hand
trembled, then shook as if the gun were too heavy to hold … and he took a
step toward Frank.

"I'm
not mean! I'm not like my daddy!"

Bo
Cantrell swung the gun up, put the barrel to his own head, and pulled the
trigger. He collapsed to the floor. They jumped up from the couch.

"Shit!"
Chuck screamed. Then he smiled. "Hey, we didn't die."

He
turned to Dwayne.

"Chest
bump."

"I
don't think so."

Dwayne
stepped to Bo's body on the floor. One side of his head was gone, and blood
oozed onto the carpet. Dwayne kicked the gun away just in case dead men could
shoot.

"Three-fifty-seven
Magnum," he said. "Makes a mess."

Chico
stood over the body and made the sign of the cross.

"For
him?" Chuck said.

"He
was still a child of God."

"A
mean, crazy, raping and killing child of God."

"True.
And his soul will burn for eternity in hell for his sins."

"That
sucks. Least we're still alive."

The
four men stood over the body of Bo Cantrell, another victim in this tragedy
called life.

"He
confessed," Dwayne said.

"But
he can't testify," Frank said.

"We
can."

"Our
testimony won't save William," Frank said. "I'm his father and
you're my friends."

Chico
held up William's cell phone. "This'll save him."

"His
phone?" Frank said.

"I
videotaped his confession."

"You
can videotape on a cell phone?" Frank said.

"Man,
you've got to get off that beach more."

Chico
played the video. He had caught it all. Frank checked his watch.

"It's
seven. He pleads at nine. How can we get that confession to the court?"

"Starbucks,"
Chico said.

"We
got no time for frappuccinos."

"They
got wireless. I can email this video to Billie Jean. She can take it to court, show the judge.
Case closed."

Chuck
grunted. "Not bad for four drunks."

They
called 911. Dwayne waited for the cops at Bo's house. Chico found the nearest
Starbucks on the phone, and at seven-thirty Frank pulled the rental car into
the parking lot of the coffee shop. They got out and ran inside. Chico
fiddled with the phone.

"I'm
in. I'm connected to the Net. What's her email address?"

"How
should I know?" Frank said.

"You're
sleeping with her."

"You
know about that?"

"We're drunks, not blind. We need her email address."

"Hand
me the phone."

He
called Billie Jean's number.

Billie Jean Crawford sat in her candy apple red
convertible Mustang on Interstate 35, the north-south thoroughfare that
bisected Austin. She had been sitting right there for the last thirty
minutes. Rush-hour traffic was always bumper-to-bumper, but seldom at a
standstill. The radio said there was a multicar accident at Fifteenth Street.
She was at Forty-sixth. She was driving to the courthouse to witness an
American tragedy: an innocent man pleading guilty. Unless his father saved
him. Her phone rang. She checked the caller ID: Frank. Last time he had
called, he was flying to Omaha to find Bo Cantrell. She answered.

"Did
you find Bo?"

"We
did."

"Did
he confess?"

"He
did. Then he killed himself."

Frank
filled her in on that morning's events.

"And
Chico got it all on tape?"

"He did."

"We've
got to get that tape to the court."

"We're
in Omaha. You've got to get it to the court."

"Email
the video to me, I'll watch it on my iPad."

"You
can do that from your car?"

"Frank,
you've got to get off that … yes, you can."

She
gave Frank her email address.

"Have
Chico email it. I'll call you back after I watch it."

Frank
disconnected. She flipped the cover on the iPad and waited. Her heart pounded
as if she had just run her five-mile loop around the lake.

William
Tucker is innocent. And his father could prove it.

She
was happy for William, perhaps happier for Frank. Now he could move forward
with his life. Maybe with her.

The
iPad pinged. An email had arrived. She opened the email and then the video
file. She called Frank back.

Frank
answered. "Did you get it?"

"Got
it. Watching it now."

"Watch
the traffic."

"We're
at a dead stop. Accident up ahead."

She
didn't speak for a few minutes, but Frank could hear Bo's voice and then a
gunshot. Then he heard Billie Jean's voice.

"Ouch.
That'll leave a mark."

"Billie Jean,
get that video to the court."

Billie Jean disconnected and checked the clock on the
dash. 8:07. She was sitting on I-35 at Forty-sixth Street. The court
convened at nine on Eleventh Street. Not good. She pulled out her cell phone
and called the jail. When the desk clerk answered, she identified herself and
asked to speak to William.

"It's
an emergency. I'm his lawyer."

"No
can do," the clerk said.

"Why
not?"

"A,
according to our records, you're not his lawyer. Scotty Raines is. And B,
they're transporting William Tucker to the Justice Center right now."

The
desk clerk hung up without saying goodbye.

"And
C, you're an asshole!" Billie Jean screamed at the phone.

William
Tucker waddled down the long underground corridor leading from the jail to the
Justice Center. His hands and feet were shackled in chains. Two deputies
escorted him, one on either side grasping his arms. He could not stop the
tears rolling down his face.

"Dead
man walking," one deputy said.

They
shared a laugh.

Travis
County District Attorney Dick Dorkin gazed out the window of his first-floor office
in the Justice Center. The media circus was setting up on the plaza outside.
Soon all those cameras would be focused on him. Every cable sports channel in
America, where the voters lived. He would take a big step that day to living
in the Governor's Mansion.

He
exited his office and walked to the elevator bank. He took an elevator to the
third floor and walked down the corridor to Judge Rooney's courtroom. He
entered as if he owned the place. He walked through the bar and shook hands
with Scotty Raines standing there. The bailiff led them into the judge's
chambers.

The
numbers on the dash clock glowed red: 8:14. Billie Jean dialed the judge's
office and got his court coordinator.

"This
is Billie Jean Crawford. I need to talk to the judge."

"He's
with the district attorney and Mr. Raines."

"Put
me through."

The
coordinator laughed. "You're a PD, and you want me to interrupt the
judge? I don't think so."

"I'm
instructing you to tell the judge not to let William Tucker plead."

"A,
I don't work for you. B, you're not his lawyer. And C—"

"You're an idiot! William Tucker is innocent!"

"I
thought he was pleading guilty today?"

"His
father found the killer!"

"Where?"

"In
Omaha."

"Omaha?
What's he doing in Omaha?"

"What?
How the hell do I know?"

"Did
the police arrest him?"

"He's
dead."

"Dead
men can't testify."

"We
have it on tape."

"Then
his lawyer needs to bring that tape to the judge."

"That's
what I'm trying to do!"

"You're
not his lawyer."

She
hung up on Billie Jean, and Billie Jean screamed.

"Everyone's
an asshole!"

One
deputy locked William's leg shackles to a floor ring in a holding cell outside
the courtroom.

"Don't
run off," he said.

The
two deputies stepped to the door.

"It's
only eight-twenty. Let's get a coffee."

The
cops had arrived at Bo's house by the time Frank, Chico, and Chuck returned
from the Starbucks. Frank dialed Billie Jean's number. She answered. It was 8:24.

"Are
you at the court?"

"No.
I'm still stuck in traffic."

"Where?"

"Forty-sixth
Street. Airport Boulevard is the next exit."

"Exit."

"The
feeder road's backed up with traffic, too, everyone trying to get around the
accident. Ten-car pileup."

"Billie Jean,
get off the highway."

Billie Jean put her blinker on and motioned to the
Mercedes Benz on her right that she needed to get over. The driver looked up
from his texting and gave her the finger.

"Asshole!"

"Me?"
Frank said.

"That
driver."

The
car in front of Billie Jean abruptly cut in front of the car on the left,
and the asshole on her right was texting again, so she turned the wheel hard
and cut in front of him. He looked up and hit his horn, but his car cost ten
times what hers cost, so he could do nothing except stick his middle finger in
the air. She returned the favor and drove onto the shoulder of the highway.

"Frank,
I'm off the highway."

"You've
got to get that video to the court."

"The
traffic is blocked in all directions. It's thirty-five blocks south and twelve
blocks west on Eleventh. That's over three miles."

"I'll
call the court, try to stall the hearing."

"What
do you want me to do?"

"Run."

They
went inside and found Dwayne handcuffed.

"Hey,
he's a cop," Chuck said. "Well, an ex-cop."

"Who
are you?"

"An
ex-coach."

The
cop turned to Frank.

"And
you?"

"Ex-lawyer."

Now
to Chico.

"Ex-con."

"Any
of you guys know my ex-wife?" The cop laughed. "You guys look like
the sequel to
Red
."

"I
love that show," Chuck said. "Can you believe Mary-Louise Parker is
forty-eight?"

"You're
shittin' me?"

"Nope."

"I
gotta watch that movie again."

"Watch
this movie," Chico said.

He
played the video for the cop.