The Case Against William (8 page)

"You
okay, Ray?"

"Yeah.
Thanks, William." He nodded at the other players. "They've got no
respect for water boys."

William
stuck a fist out. "Knucks."

As
in "knuckles." They fist-bumped.

Sam
Jenkins had left, and Frank stood at the fence pondering the scout's advice
when his cell phone rang. He checked the readout. It was an Austin number.
He answered.

"Frank
Tucker."

"Frank.
Scooter and Billy."

Scooter
McKnight was the athletic director at UT. Billy Hayes was the head
basketball coach. They were on a speakerphone. Frank had a feeling they
weren't calling to offer game tickets.

"Can
we talk?" Scooter said.

"Shoot."

"Not
on the phone. Can you come to Austin? Tomorrow?"

"Can't."

"Saturday?"

"Scooter,
I told my son we'd play golf—"

"It's
important, Frank."

Scooter
was not given to drama. So Frank and William would play Sunday instead.

"All
right. At your office in the stadium?"

"At
the jail."

"The
jail
?"

Scooter
sighed into the phone. "Watch the news."

Frank
disconnected and wondered what the meeting would be about. More specifically,
whom it would be about. Frank had handled some high-profile matters for the
athletic department, which is to say, he had represented athletes who had found
themselves on the wrong side of the law. Most were just young and stupid and
bulletproof, or so they had thought. They were living in those gap years, with
bodies like men and brains like boys. Testosterone and stupidity had
apparently joined up to produce another bad result. He knew Saturday's meeting
would not be a happy affair. Happy people don't call criminal defense
attorneys.

"We've
got the society luncheon tomorrow."

His
wife's perfume announced her presence. He turned to her. She was forty-two
now, but daily workouts and regular spa treatments had deferred her aging. She
was still lean and fit; climbing the social ladder in Houston required stamina.

"What
time?"

"Noon."

"I
can't."

"You
promised."

"Nancy's
son is coming home from Iraq."

"So?"

"In
a casket."

Her
son had died at twenty-two, only eight years older than William. Where would
Frank's son be at twenty-two? Not dying from a roadside bomb in a foreign land
to help people who hated Americans. Would he be playing pro football for
Americans who loved the game more than life itself? Was his son's dream in
Frank's hands? Was Sam the scout right? What would a good father do?

"Who
was that you were talking to?" his wife said.

"On
the phone?"

"No.
That man."

"College
scout."

"Why?"

"He
came to see William play. Scouting a fourteen-year-old boy."

"So
what did he say?"

Frank
recounted his conversation with Sam Jenkins to his wife.

"He
really thinks William could be a star in the NFL?" she said.

"Apparently."

"Then
we've got to do it."

"Hold
on, Liz. We need to think this out, the consequences for William. Not just
what he wants, but what he needs. What's best for him. He's as big as a man,
but he's still just a kid without a clue."

"What's
a vagina look like?"

Frank
spit out the beef from his beef taco. Becky covered her face.

"Oh—my—God!
William, that is so disgusting. And at the dinner table."

Liz
had gone into the kitchen to check on Lupe. They were not sitting at the table
in the kitchen in the old house. They were sitting at the formal dining table
in the formal dining room in the new eight-thousand-square-foot house. They
had sold the old house and moved into this house a year ago. It was new and
austere and filled with marble, like a mausoleum. It did not feel like home to
Frank. Or to the kids. Or to Rusty, one holdover from the old house. This
new house had cost four and a half million dollars. Frank was carrying a
two-million-dollar mortgage. All to keep the peace. To be with the kids.
Becky, who was sixteen now and had only two more years at home, and William,
whose size made him seem older when in fact he was just a fourteen-year-old boy
working his way through puberty. Sometime in the last year, girls had become
interesting.

"It's
my one question," William said.

About
a year before William had figured out that there was a secret world called sex,
so he began peppering Frank with questions. A lot of anatomical and mechanical
inquiries. Five, ten a day. Frank felt as if he were being deposed. So he
reminded his son of the rule—if he asked a question, Frank would tell him the
truth; but he had to be sure he wanted to know the truth—and then limited his
sex questions to one per day. He couldn't deal with that much sex talk each
day, particularly given that he was no longer a practitioner. But the
preferred place for the daily question was not the dinner table.

"So
how did this particular topic come up?"

"Some
of the guys were talking about it at practice. Timmy McDougal said he had seen
a picture online. Then his mother blocked porn sites on his computer. Petey
Perkins said he had seen his sister's, but that made us all want to throw
up."

Lupe
came in with a platter of Mexican food. She was the other holdover. The house
was new and the furnishings were new, but their maid was two years older. She
did not wear a colorful peasant dress but instead all black, like a waiter at a
fine restaurant. Liz had decided that Lupe needed to upgrade to a uniform when
they moved into the new house.

"So
why do you want to know?" Frank asked.

"I'm
the only fourteen-year-old kid who's never seen one, not even a picture. I
should know that sort of thing."

"Can
we talk about something else?" Becky said.

"Why?"

"Because
this is gross."

"My
question was directed to William."

"All
the other guys do. I feel stupid."

Frank
tried to recall when he had first seen a vagina. It was in a
Playboy
magazine another boy had smuggled into school like contraband. He was in ninth
grade and never looked at girls the same way again. Answering his son's sex
questions had fallen to Frank, father-son and all. Telling him there was no
Santa Claus was easier. That talk had also fallen to Frank.

"All
right. After dinner. We'll find a vagina on the Internet."

Becky
stared at Frank with her mouth gaped. Frank turned his hands up.

"What?"

"If
I had asked to see a penis when I was fourteen, would you have shown me a
picture on the Internet?"

"No."

"Exactly."

"And
have you seen one?"

She
pointed at her brother. "His … but not recently."

There
was more for her to tell, but Frank could not summon up the courage to ask.
She answered anyway.

"Don't
worry, Daddy. I'm still a virgin. I'm not going to let a guy use me to make
his high school memories. I'm smarter than that."

Frank
leaned over and kissed her forehead.

"Thank
you."

"For
what?"

"For
being a better daughter than I am a dad."

"You're
welcome."

Everyone
said the first child would be easy. Not so much the second.

"Can
I ask a follow-up question?" William said.

"No."

He
did anyway.

"Jimmy
said girls put IUDs up their vaginas so they don't get pregnant. But I told
him that would be dangerous because your secretary's son died from an IUD in
Iraq. Jimmy's dumb, isn't he?"

"He
is," Becky said.

"But
not about that," Frank said. "Nancy's son died from an I
E
D,
an improvised explosive device. An I
U
D is an intrauterine device. A
form of birth control women use."

"Do
they hurt?"

"Women? Yes."

Frank
smiled at Becky.

"Funny,"
his daughter said.

"What's
for dessert?" his son said.

William's
cell phone buzzed. Incoming text. He checked it then jumped out of his chair
and ran into the kitchen to the nearest TV. He clicked it on and found the
local news. Mom stood next to him. She was mad because Dad wasn't going to
some lunch with her the next day.

"Dad!"

Dad
and Becky walked in a few seconds later. William pointed at the screen. The
reporter was talking: "Bradley Todd, the star UT basketball player, was
arrested today in Austin and charged with the brutal rape and murder of a UT
coed. He's being held without bail in the Travis County Jail. The D.A. is
going to seek the death penalty."

"So
that's it," Dad said.

"What?"

"The
AD and coach called me today at your game. We're meeting Saturday morning.
About this."

"I
thought we were playing golf Saturday?"

"Sunday."

"Is
he the son of the Todds of Highland Park?" Liz asked. "The
billionaire?"

"I
don't know."

She
did.

"They're
high in Dallas society."

"His
dad'll buy his way out," William said. "Just like Kobe bought his
way out."

"Kobe
wasn't accused of murder."

"You're
not seriously going to be his lawyer?" Becky said.

"Depends."

"Daddy,
you can't represent a rapist and a murderer!"

"I'm
not going to. I'm going to meet him, see if he's being wrongfully accused, if
he's innocent."

"And
if he's not? Innocent?"

"He'll
have to find another lawyer."

The
Travis County Jail anchored the corner of Tenth and Nueces in downtown Austin.
One any given day, several hundred men resided there; several thousand more
resided in the long-term jail facility south of town. They all resided there
involuntarily. They had been arrested and charged with violations of the Texas
Penal Code. Assault. Robbery. Rape. Murder. Some could not make bail.
Some were denied bail. All wanted out. Desperately.

Bradley
Todd was one such man.

Sitting
on the inmate side of the Plexiglas partition in the interview room, he did not
look like a rapist or a murderer. He looked like a very tall Mormon
missionary. But he was not a missionary. He was twenty years old and the star
player on the UT basketball team. Coach Billy Hayes shook his head in despair.

"I
finally find a white boy who can play D-One basketball, then he does this."

"Did
he?" Frank said. "Do it?"

"Rape
and kill her? No. I mean, get himself arrested."

Scooter
McKnight sighed. "Book 'em Horns."

"Hook
'em Horns" was the Longhorn slogan. After a number of UT athletes had
been arrested in recent years for various violations of the law, the Austin
media had taken to saying, "Book 'em Horns."

"He's
a player," Billy said. "A real shooter. He could go pro, but
he wants to be a doctor—you believe that? A false accusation like this could
ruin his life. He's religious and Republican—Republicans don't rape and murder
college coeds. Jesus, Frank, he goes to Sunday school. What basketball player
does that these days? These girls, they throw themselves at star athletes.
It's hard to say no when all you have to do is say yes. Then they claim rape."

"How
many claim murder?"

The
coach gave Frank a look.

"You
know what I mean. Look at him."

They
spoke in low voices. Frank, Billy, and Scooter were standing on the visitor side of
the Plexiglas; Bradley's parents stood against the wall behind them. They were
in fact the billionaire Todds of Highland Park. Their son stood six feet eight
inches tall. His hair was short. He had no visible tattoos or piercings. He
was engaged to a nice girl. He was white. Would Frank feel the same about him
if he were black and accused of raping and murdering a white girl? If he had
dreadlocks and tattoos and wore his pants below his butt? If his name was
D'Marcellus or LaMichael? If his parents were poor?

"They
can pay the full freight, Frank," Scooter said. "They live in
Highland Park."

Dallas'
billionaires lived in Highland Park just as Houston's billionaires lived in
River Oaks.

"You
name your price, they'll pay. They want you."

"Why?"

"The
dad, he's buddies with Senator Ramsey. She told him to hire you."

"You
know my rule, Scooter."

"He's
innocent, Frank."

"On
the TV, the police chief said they had his DNA."

Billy sighed
and nodded. "Semen. Like I said, these girls throw themselves at the
players."

Frank
studied Bradley Todd. Was he a brutal rapist and murderer or a falsely accused
innocent young man? Like the three Duke lacrosse players who made the mistake
of going to a party where a stripper named Crystal Gail Mangum performed.
After the party got out of hand, she accused the three players of raping her.
The university, faculty, students, police, and district attorney (who was up
for reelection) presumed their guilt. Feminists and faculty staged campus
protests and demanded that the players be expelled. They were. The grand jury
indicted the players for rape and kidnapping. Fortunately for the players,
their parents had money; they spent three million dollars proving their sons'
innocence. The North Carolina Attorney General declared that the three players
had been falsely accused and revealed that District Attorney Mike Nifong had
withheld exculpatory DNA evidence. Nifong was subsequently disbarred for
prosecutorial misconduct and convicted of criminal contempt; he served one day
in jail. The players sued Duke University, which settled with them, and
enrolled in other colleges. Mangum wrote a memoir and was later convicted of
murder after stabbing her boyfriend to death. Three innocent young men would
be in prison still if a lawyer hadn't believed in them.